


sky full of song

by bacchusofficial



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: (in later chapters), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blow Jobs, Canonical Character Death, Fluff and Humor, Hand & Finger Kink, Hand Jobs, Idiots in Love, Letters, M/M, Mutual Pining, Praise Kink, Sex, Slow Burn, Voice Kink, the canon divergence is that bioware lets you romance varric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:54:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 48,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22092913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bacchusofficial/pseuds/bacchusofficial
Summary: “You,” said Hawke, “are Varric fucking Tethras, bestselling author, badass rogue, charming son of a bitch. You’ve fought dragons. You’ve helped save Kirkwall, your home—““Saveis a strong word.”“—and you deserve happiness just as much as anyone else.”Varric joins the inquisition, saves the world, and falls in love. Not necessarily in that order.
Relationships: Anders/Male Hawke (one-sided), Bianca Davri/Varric Tethras (past) - Relationship, Cullen Rutherford/Female Trevelyan, Female Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford, Fenris/Male Hawke, Hawke & Varric Tethras, Male Inquisitor/Iron Bull (implied), Male Inquisitor/Varric Tethras, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Varric Tethras/Male Trevelyan
Comments: 40
Kudos: 205





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> after eight months, i have finally provided the varric romance fic the world deserves.
> 
> please take this from me.

It had rained for eight days, and given the place was called the Storm Coast, Varric didn’t have real reason for bitterness.

That didn’t mean he wasn’t bitter, anyway. 

He shielded his eyes as he squinted up at the clouds, waiting for the others to finish splashing around on the beach looking for… whatever it was Trevelyan wanted. Plants? Something about healing supplies, refugees, do-gooding, blah blah et cetera. Varric had thought it was bad with just one of them around; now that the Inquisitor had sent for her brother to stay and aid the Inquisition at Skyhold, the running around _really_ never stopped. 

One Trevelyan was a force to be reckoned with. Two? 

Let’s just say, Varric was glad he was on the right side of this war. 

For someone with so much on her hands (pun intended), the Inquisitor went out of her way to help the little people a lot, which meant so did her brother. Heroes for you. You’d think by now Varric would’ve learned to steer clear of them, he thought, smiling fondly at Trevelyan’s back as he stooped knee-deep in ocean over a blood lotus. 

Thunder rolled. Trevelyan paused to look out at the dark clouds on the horizon. Well, dark _er_ clouds.

“Looks like that’s headed towards us,” Varric called across the water.

Even from this distance, Varric could see the little squint Trevelyan did when he found something unsatisfactory, but couldn’t do anything about it. An unfortunate tell during the handful of wicked grace games Trevelyan had been coaxed into playing. 

Eventually, Trevelyan signaled something to Cassandra and Solas, and the three waded back to shore. 

“And so, our fearless leader parted the seas,” Varric narrated. Trevelyan almost rolled his eyes—dangerously close to emoting. Bull might owe Varric a few crowns by the time they got back to Skyhold. 

If they ever got back.

“Camp’s just across that ridge,” Trevelyan said. “We can make it, if we hurry.”

“It’s just rain,” Cassandra pointed out, pragmatic as ever. “A bit late to worry about getting caught in the rain.” She gestured, redundantly, at the dribbling mist in the air. 

“This isn’t rain, Seeker,” said Varric. “This is just the Maker spitting on us.”

Which was the perfect time for the skies to open fire.

“You just _always_ have to say _something_!” Cassandra shouted, as they ran for shelter. 

They didn’t make it to camp, unless you counted a swampy, darkspawn-infested cave as camp. Varric, for his part, did not.

“At least, like you said, we were already soaked,” he said, once the place was clear and they’d hunkered down to wait out the worst of the storm. 

Cassandra looked seconds away from snapping his neck. Solas, having done his part lighting their pitiful little fire, was off in the corner meditating or whatever. Trevelyan, expressionless, poured about a gallon of water out of his boot.

Alright. So not a joking atmosphere. Varric couldn’t hold it against them.

“Once the worst of this has passed, we’ll head back to Skyhold,” Trevelyan decided, slicking his black hair out of his eyes (usually, he had it all neat and trimmed and tidy, but that didn’t stand a chance in this place. He looked kind of funny like this, like a noble’s pedigree cat who’d fallen in the bath and was too offended to scratch—as opposed to his general look, the look of a lion who could barely restrain his claws). “We’ve got what we need.” 

“I don’t know about you two, but what I need are dry undergarments,” said Varric, finally taking off his rain-soaked coat and dumping it on the ground near the fire. It made a squelching sound.

“We made good progress in the area.” Cassandra turned her nose at Varric’s socks as they joined the clothes pile, and Trevelyan wouldn't even look at him, which… was absolutely fair. “But it will be good to recuperate at Skyhold. Maker forbid one of us contracts the flu. There is simply too much to be done.”

_Sod that_ , Varric thought, but didn’t say because he rather liked the current configuration of his limbs. When he got home, he was disappearing for a month. It’d take at least that long to dry off.

Varric’s “vacation” plans lasted a week before a messenger knocked on his door.

“From the Inquisitor, ser,” she said, handing over a letter before whisking away on the wind. She didn’t have to tell him—Varric recognized the Trevelyan seal on the envelope (he’d forged it once or twice over the years. Not since the Inquisition, of course, but business was business).

_Varric,_

_I will be traveling to the Hinterlands in two days’ time to accomplish several goals set forth by the Inquisition, including taking care of the few remaining fade rifts and, as concerns you, looking into destroying the red lyrium deposits we’ve investigated there. I thought this would interest you, and moreover I would greatly appreciate your aid in the matter. We should be gone no more than three weeks including travel. Please respond promptly if you are able to come._

_Regards,_

_Inquisitor Theodora Trevelyan_

Varric sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Well,” he muttered, pocketing the letter. “No rest for the wicked.”

At least it was just the Hinterlands. 

There was no such thing as looking for the Inquisitor in Skyhold; the best thing to do was wait for her to come to you, or hope you saw her making the rounds. Instead of bothering with that himself, Varric had a messenger set out on his behalf, and went to find the other hero on his to-talk list. 

Finding Hawke, by contrast, was easy. Just step outside and follow the sound of that loud-ass laugh. 

Varric didn't understand why Hawke insisted on staying up on the battlements like this—something about “taking in the Fereldan air while I can,” Hawke said, though Varric pointed out he could just as easily take in the Fereldan air in the warmth and comfort of the great hall. Then Hawke would point out that’s exactly what a city person like Varric would say, and Varric would point out that at this point, _Hawke_ was a city person, and then…

Anyway. Varric found Hawke leaning against a battlement (and didn’t that just make Varric nervous), talking to a rapt Lord Trevelyan. 

“—by the end of it, I was lucky the only thing I lost were a few of my gauntlets, and not a few of my friends,” Hawke laughed.

“If I remember correctly, Fenris wouldn’t talk to you for a few days after that game,” Varric said, making his presence known. Hawke’s grin widened even further, while Trevelyan tensed and any hint of leftover mirth was replaced by a stony, artfully impassive expression. Varric almost wished he hadn’t said anything. 

“Probably because I let Anders keep the gloves, and not him. Perhaps I could’ve given them one each,” Hawke mused with a wry, fond smile. Varric definitely wished he hadn’t said anything.

“Anders,” said Trevelyan with a small, thoughtful frown. “That’s the one who—“

“So, Varric,” Hawke interrupted, somehow giving each of them a separate apologetic smile. Varric would thank him later with a drink. “What brings you here?”

“Only to bask in the glory of your company,” Varric said, slipping easily back into his charm. “And bring the sad news I’ll be leaving again in a few days.”

“Damn. So soon?”

“Duty calls. The Inquisitor needs my expertise in the Hinterlands.”

“Then you are going?” Trevelyan asked. Varric wished he could tell what the guy wanted the answer to be. “We spoke about that last night. She was concerned you wouldn’t be up to it, since we just returned last week.”

“Me? Not up to something? First time I’ve heard that one,” Varric grinned, humor only a little forced. 

“Varric’s always up to something,” said Hawke, solemnly. 

“My apologies for forgetting.” _There!_ That _had_ to be a smile. Well, a smile by Trevelyan’s standards, at least. Varric felt like he’d won something, somehow, even though it had been Hawke who’d coaxed it out of him. Damn Hawke. How the hell did he do it?

“I should be getting on. It was nice talking with you, Hawke,” Trevelyan said. He tipped his head at Varric. “Ser Tethras.” 

“Pleasure’s mine,” said Hawke.

“Any time,” said Varric. _Ser Tethras?_ Anyone else, and they’d get an arrow in their pants. 

They watched Trevelyan walk off, Varric scowling, Hawke’s smile growing by the second. 

“What’s with the formality? I thought you two were friends.”

“Sure we are,” said Varric. “He’s just—well, you’ve talked to him. You know how he is.”

Hawke blinked, waiting. He was the only person who could make Varric squirm. 

“Regal, distant, noble’s son type. Doesn’t like to show people his cards until he’s sure they’ve got the same hand.” 

“Really?” Hawke was surprised. “I think he’s just shy.” 

“You’re kidding.” 

“He’s been perfectly charming with me, though he does ask quite a lot of questions.” 

“He asks you things?” 

Hawke tilted his head, pitying. “Are you _sure_ you’re friends?”

“Yes—well, I _was_ … Damn.” Varric shook his head. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe the guy just doesn’t like me.” 

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” said Hawke, in that vague way of his. He looked off in the direction Trevelyan had disappeared, and a smile flickered at his mouth. “I like him a lot,” he said, quiet and honest in a way he wasn’t with most people. “He reminds me of Bethany.” 

Well. Wasn’t much Varric could say to that. They stood together for a while, enjoying their silence. 

“So,” said Hawke, at last. “When do you leave?”

“Boss says two days,” said Varric. 

“Be careful out there.”

“Contrary to your beliefs, I _can_ handle myself without you.” Hawke pulled on his ponytail and Varric swatted his hand, laughing. “Besides,” he said. “It’s just the Hinterlands. How bad could it get?”

Bull had to carry Theodora to the rift and hold the anchor up himself to close it. 

For a second there was no sound, just a ringing in Varric’s ears, and then it all rushed back and he could hear Theodora’s screams. 

“Dorian!” Bull yelled. _“Now_ would be a good time for some magic!”

“Don’t you think I _know_ that you bloody great meatlocker? She’s lost too much blood, I can’t—I can’t—“

Varric gripped his arm. “Run back to camp. Tell them to get supplies ready. We’ll be there as soon as we can.”

Dorian opened his mouth to argue when Theodora’s screams turned to a gurgle of blood, then stopped. One look and Dorian was off like fire.

“Keep her stable, Bull. Try to put pressure on that wound.” Wounds? There was so much blood Varric couldn't tell where it came from. “Let’s go.”

They picked their way through the woods, Varric in front to move rocks out of the way and give Bull the clearest path possible. At one point, Varric looked back and his heart almost gave out because _how could anyone so pale be alive—_

“Hang in there, T,” he said through his teeth, shoving a stack of logs. 

_“Shit_ LOOK OUT!”

Varric dodged the swipe of the bear’s paw by inches. 

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding!” he hollered, ducking behind a tree. The bear charged; Bianca put a bolt in its eye and it swerved, and that was the only reason Varric wasn’t dead.

“I can’t drop her!”

“Don’t!” There was no way Varric could do this. 

Theodora’s arm flopped limply in the air at his side.

He had to do this.

Varric leapt backwards towards Bull as he put another bolt in the bear—not near far enough. “When I give the signal, you run!”

“What?”

“NOW!”

Varric put Bianca on his back, planted his feet, and pretended he was someone else. Someone who could war cry at a bear, get its attention, and as soon as it started charging, turn around and let it chase him. 

There was no way to look back and make sure Bull was running. The only thing Varric could be sure of was that _he_ was running, and the bear was right at his heels. The cave wasn’t too far back, but to Varric it felt like miles away—he had to think quickly on his feet (literally). He had Bianca. He had the cave. He had a bear. He needed only one of the three. 

As he came into the mouth of the cave, he turned around. 

The bear was three yards behind. Varric took Bianca off his back. Two yards. Loaded an exploding bolt. One yard. Fired into the loose stones above. 

Varric wished he could say he pushed through the rubble and rose heroically to his feet, Bianca glinting in hand and eyes glinting in victory. In fact, he _would_ say that, but it would be a lie. His escape was more of a painful shimmy, teeth gritted around a stream of curses, covered in dirt and blood, patting out the flame at the tail of his coat. 

He had no idea where the bear was, and at this point he was too relieved to ask. 

He looked out to see Bull cradling Theodora in—evidently—the same spot he’d been standing pre-avalanche. It wasn’t as far as Varric had thought—only a couple hundred yards. From that distance, he looked Varric up and down and said, _“Damn.”_

_“Why,”_ Varric wheezed. “Are you _still here?”_

They made it to camp. Bull rushed the Inquisitor up the ridge where a team of people had a bedroll ready on the ground. They helped Bull set her down, then surrounded her. 

Thank the Maker that was over. 

Varric made his own way—slowly, limping—up the hill. 

An arm came around his shoulders to support him along. “Maker, I leave you on your own for five minutes and this is what you do to yourself.” Dorian looked and sounded like he was barely holding himself together, beneath all that bravado. Varric managed a queasy grin. 

“What can I say? I’m hopeless without you— _ah!”_ He winced as Dorian sat him on a rock and rolled up his sleeves. 

“I can’t do much, I’m afraid, but I can stop the bleeding and tide over any serious injuries.” 

“My saving grace, Sparkler,” Varric said, distracted craning his head trying to see Theodora past the people around her. 

“Hold still,” Dorian snapped, then, quieter, “She’ll be just fine. Worry about yourself, why don’t you?” 

Varric didn’t make eye contact as he felt Dorian’s spell knit his flesh together at the various scrapes he’d received during the avalanche. The skin still burned, as did what he suspected were a couple cracked ribs, but he wasn’t dead, so he counted it as a win. 

Also, Theodora wasn’t dead, so that was the real win. Not to get sappy, but Varric didn’t think the Maker had put him here with the Herald of Andraste so he could let her die. 

When people asked (and they would), Varric would put on an easy grin and say he’d done it because he couldn’t let these hero types have _all_ the good stories. But, really, Varric had done it because the world needed Theodora Trevelyan alive more than it needed him.

He didn’t breathe easy until, that evening, he walked by Theodora’s sickbed and saw her sleeping peacefully. (Truthfully, he didn’t breathe easy then either because of those cracked ribs, but that was nothing a proper drink wouldn’t fix later). 

_Dear Bianca,_

_As suspicious as I am towards the intentions behind asking me about the Trevelyans, I’ve decided to tell you, anyway, because I’ve finally learned that hiding things from you just makes you go figure them out… Other ways._

_Theodora (that’s our fearless Inquisitor) is lovely. She has this way about her, that makes people feel like she's always listening. Heart of gold, that one. And she speaks her mind in a way that makes you think it was your mind doing the talking, even if five minutes ago you’d’ve never agreed with her. Honestly, if we’ve got her leading the charge, Corypheus doesn’t stand a chance._

_Tristan’s her brother. He’s about a year older, I think. The middle child. He’s hard to read—yeah, even for me. He’s got this shell around him, and walks like anything might crack it. He doesn’t really… talk. Or, alright, he does, but I never know what he really means. It’s just like he says things only because he thinks they’re what people want to hear, which can be good or bad depending on who’s doing the hearing. I don’t know what to make of him. One minute, I’ll think he’s about to smile, and the next? Stone face._

_Hawke seems to like him, though. That has to count for something._

_Anyway, that’s about it. Now it’s your turn to give me some gossip. You said what's his name bought what from the carta?_

_Yours,_

_V_

On Varric’s way to the Herald’s Rest, someone fell into step with him. He looked up. 

“Ser Tethras. Bull told me what you did for my sister,” Trevelyan said. Varric always forgot how blue his eyes were up close, especially like this; wide and earnest. “Thank you.”

“Oh, you know. All in a day’s work.”

“I don’t want to think what might’ve happened if you’d decided you’d already accomplished that particular day’s work,” Trevelyan said, and before Varric could work out if that counted as a joke or not, he went on. “She’s recovered well. Another day or two and she’ll be back to her usual workload.”

“In the meantime, Skyhold gets the pleasure of having you at the helm, Lord Trevelyan.”

Trevelyan said nothing. Varric was almost afraid to look over at him. But the expected rage was not there when, after a pause, Trevelyan said—perfectly neutral—“There’s no need to call me that, you know. I have a given name.” 

Varric couldn’t even pretend not to laugh at that. “How about I stop calling you Lord Trevelyan when you stop calling me Ser Tethras?”

To Varric’s surprise, Trevelyan froze mid-step. “Oh,” he said. “I-I’m sorry, I just…” 

He trailed off. Varric stopped, too, and now took a step towards him—the poor guy looked so lost, Varric had to put a hand on his arm to let him know he was still there. “Hey,” he said. “It’s alright, deep breaths. Talk to me.”

Trevelyan closed his eyes as his chest rose and fell. Opened them. Wide, bright blue, but calm. “I’m sorry,” he said, again. “I just have a difficult time knowing the right thing to say. Keeping formalities makes things… easier, sometimes.” 

“And other times?” asked Varric, gently, worried about destroying this moment of honesty by scaring him off. 

“They trap things in a box I don’t know how to open.” 

“Nice metaphor. I might use that.”

It worked. That was a smile—small, but undeniable. Varric squeezed Trevelyan’s arm and let his hand drop. “You know, Tristan,” he said, trying out the name and deciding it felt a lot better (plus, a lot less confusing, since there were _two_ Trevelyans running about). “Sometimes the best thing to say is just whatever’s on your mind. If all you ever worry about is what someone else wants you to say, odds are at some point, people are gonna stop listening.”

Tristan nodded. “Bull told me something similar.” He took another deep breath. “Thank you, Varric. I apologize, I didn’t mean to…” 

_Express emotion?_ Varric thought, but didn’t say. Perhaps not the time.

“I’ll leave you be, now.” Tristan turned to go.

“Hey, hold on,” said Varric before his brain caught up to his mouth (a losing race, no matter the circumstance). “I was just on my way to play cards with a couple of the others. Why don’t you join us?”

Tristan’s eyes lit up. He blinked, like he just couldn’t believe it. “Really?” 

“Always room at the table for someone else to win coin from. Rumor has it your sister might even make an appearance.” 

“Alright,” said Tristan. “Thank you for inviting me. I’d love to.” 

There was still that barrier of formality, but underneath it a glimmering pleasure, almost like flattery. On Tristan, that was like jumping for joy. Varric chuckled as he led the way into the tavern. 

“I fold,” Bull proclaimed. 

“What’s wrong with you?” Sera demanded. “If you don’t wanna play, you coulda just said so, yeah? ‘ _I fold.’”_ That was actually a surprisingly good approximation of Bull’s voice. If Varric wasn’t playing cards, he might’ve raised his eyebrows. “Pathetic.” 

Bull’s laugh rumbled across the table. “The little prince has something up his sleeve. Look at him, smiling like that.” 

The table’s eyes all went to Tristan, some more surreptitiously than others—Varric’s just quickly enough to see the last traces of pride flee from his face. “I barely even know what the pictures on the cards mean,” Tristan defended. 

“Bullshit,” Bull called. “I know you better than you’d like,” then set down his hand and repeated, “I fold.” 

Cullen muttered something and also put his cards down, which prompted Theodora to feign a cough and act like she was folding of her own accord, and not because Cullen was. What an unfortunate person for her choose to take cues from. Varric’s eyes glittered with amusement as he shared a look with Leliana. She was sitting beside Tristan and pretending she hadn’t snuck a peek at his cards a minute before. While everyone else was distracted deciding whether to trust Bull or their own instinct, Varric raised an eyebrow, imperceptible to anyone but Leliana. She, without looking at him, tipped her head to the side. 

Varric grinned. 

“Maker’s balls, now _Varric’s_ smiling,” Dorian snapped, tossing his head back and laying his cards down with a flourish. “I’m out.” 

“Aw, come on, Sparkler—I just can't help myself, with you sitting next to me.” 

“Flatterer.” 

Varric shrugged, then leaned back, looked casually at Tristan, and said, “Call.” He laid his own cards face-up—three queens. Not his best hand, not his worst. Really, seeing the look on Tristan’s face when he lost to Leliana would be winning enough for Varric. Grumbling, the remaining players laid out their hands; Sera, Leliana, and Hawke. 

Tristan bit the inside of his cheek, but otherwise remained impassive as he laid a full house on the table. 

Well, shit. Varric’s mouth fell open. On his right, Hawke snorted at him and Varric kicked his shin. Leliana was as cool as ice as Tristan wordlessly scooped his winnings into a neat pile at his elbow. 

Varric was going to kill her. He just had to figure out how. 

Bull slammed a fist on the table, roaring with laughter. “See? I told you he had something!” 

“That you did,” Varric murmured. “That you did.” 

The next hand, it was Theodora who was up to something. She kept burying her nose in her cards, glancing slyly around the table, and forcing down a smile. 

It was the worst poker face Varric had ever seen. However, he no longer trusted anything, so he took all that with a couple buckets of salt. At the same time, he had more practice reading Theodora, and knew what she was like. The odds of her having a good hand were as good as the odds of anyone having a good hand. The odds of her _knowing_ her hand was good, however…

“Oy, dwarfy, are you in or what?” Sera asked. 

“Sure,” Varric said, hopelessly. “Why not?” 

“Call,” Theodora said, with confidence. 

Everyone stared at her. 

“Uh, Boss,” Bull said, after a pause. “What, exactly, are you calling?” 

Theodora frowned in confusion. “What do you mean?” 

“There’s nothing on the table.”

“I just—“ Theodora flushed a little. “I thought that was what you said when you wanted to show everyone your cards.”

“Oh, why didn’t you say so? I’d be happy to look at your cards,” Hawke put in with a grin. 

After Bull explained that there had to be at least one round of betting before she could call someone’s bet, the game resumed, and conversation was full of the usual friendly nagging and name-calling for the next few rounds, until, finally, it was time for everyone to show their cards. 

No one had a particularly good hand, but all eyes turned apprehensively to Theodora—who waited smugly to be the last to lay down her hand. 

Silence. Varric hid his mouth behind his hand.

There wasn’t a single pair. Not one flush. Her hand was junk. 

Theodora beamed, looking around at all the faces oggling her. No one was quite brave enough to tell her, except—

“Thea, are you _joking?”_ Tristan burst. “That may be the worst hand I’ve ever seen.” 

“ _What?_ But I thought—“

It was impossible to hear what she thought over everyone’s laughter. Theodora stammered indignantly, trying to save face, but the only person on her side was Cullen, who did his best not to laugh and awkwardly patted her wrist, then jerked his hand away like he’d burned it and looked down at his lap. She pushed her shoulders back and pressed her lips together, pulling her arms close to her sides. They snuck a glance at each other, realized they’d made eye contact, and looked away again.

Varric, of course, didn’t see any of it, too busy trying not to fall out of his seat. 

Maker above, they’d be talking about this for weeks. 

Even Tristan, when Varric snuck a look over, had his eyes crinkled with mirth. 

Well, what do you know. Maybe the guy wasn’t so cold, after all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first off, thanks to [olivia](https://tictacboxes.tumblr.com/) for helping me get through this, and for the wonderful thea (she is her inquisitor, and tristan is mine). 
> 
> additionally, thanks to you for reading this! please remember to tip your authors in the form of kudos and comments. i truly love hearing from you :*
> 
> this fic is finished (thanks, once again, to olivia), and i plan to update every week, so be on the lookout 4 that.
> 
> and finally, check me out on tumblr [@bacchusofficial](https://bacchusofficial.tumblr.com/), or on my art instagram [@alchemicaldragon](https://www.instagram.com/alchemicaldragon/?hl=en).


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy wednesday!

Things were different, after their talk outside the Herald’s Rest. Sure, Tristan still had his moments—days—of stunted courtliness, but now Varric could count on both hands instead of none the number of regular conversations they’d had where Tristan hadn’t spoken solely of Inquisition business. Last week, he’d even asked Varric for a copy of _Hard in Hightown,_ then been shell shocked when Varric had just given it to him—(“I didn’t mean to ask for charity, I’d gladly pay for—“ “You’re not paying me, it’s a gift. I don’t consider gifts to friends charity.”) 

After that incident, Tristan had avoided him for a few days. Varric had the sad suspicion it had something to do with the use of the “f” word. 

Theodora set out again, this time to the Fallow Mire with Cole, Sera and Solas, which meant Tristan was mostly occupied keeping the many gears of Skyhold turning. And Hawke was in Crestwood, looking for his Warden friend. That gave Varric a good month or so without worrying about getting swept off on some adventure. 

Which left him time to write. Dipping a pen in ink again was like sliding on an old, comfortable pair of shoes, or sinking into a hot bath. 

His publisher was on his ass about another _Hard in Hightown_ , and he gave it his best for a few pages before giving up and tossing them in the bottom drawer of his desk. He couldn’t shake this other idea, about a young knight who dreamed of becoming a hero but kept fucking up every step of the way…

“So there you are.” 

Varric dotted a sentence and looked up from his makeshift desk in the bell tower. Cassandra stood in the stairwell, scowl as charismatic as ever. 

“Have you been up here all day?” 

“A gentleman never tells,” said Varric, turning back to his manuscript. His candle was nearly at its end—he wondered how much he’d have to pester Cassandra to get him a new one. 

He heard her footsteps stomp across the room, her armor clink as she leaned against a wall and looked out one of the glassless windows. The cold wind whipped through the tower, but Varric had his coat on, and he was sitting on the floor so he had the barrier of the walls to shield the worst of it. 

“You should eat something. I’m surprised you haven’t frozen to death.”

“What can I thank for the pleasure of your visit, Seeker?” 

Cassandra scoffed. “You weren’t at dinner. People were concerned.” 

“People?” 

“People,” she deadpanned. 

“Well,” Varric chuckled, blowing on the ink before carefully laying the page in the stack and moving on to the next. “You can tell _people_ that I’m just fine.” 

She gave him a generous ten seconds of silence, then, “Why _are_ you up here, anyway?”

“To tell you the truth, Seeker, it was because I wanted to get some writing done without anyone barging in to ask about things like why I wasn’t at dinner. I guess I should’ve picked an even less likely hiding place.” 

“Oh,” said Cassandra. She seemed embarrassed, ducking her head and pretending to be interested in something out the window. 

At last, Varric took pity on her. “What is it?” he asked. 

“Hm?” 

“You’re obviously bursting at the seams to ask something. Out with it, then.” 

“Oh, I—it was nothing, truly, please ignore me.” 

Varric raised an eyebrow. She shifted. 

“It’s just—“ she said. Coughed. “I was wondering what you are working on, is all. But clearly you are busy, so I will simply take my leave.” So saying, she turned to scurry down the stairs. 

“If you insist,” Varric said, coyly, then let out a mournful sigh. “I guess I’ll have to find someone else to look over the rough draft…” 

She couldn’t reach the pages fast enough. 

  
“Varric.” 

A firm but careful hand shook his shoulder and his eyes snapped open. Their second (third? fourth?) candle was nearly out of wax, and sharp eyes peered down at him. 

“You fell asleep,” Cassandra said. As though he hadn’t noticed. “I believe it is time for us to return to our quarters.” 

Varric blinked the sleep out of his eyes and shuffled his things together, winced as he got to his feet. Cassandra dropped the carefully arranged manuscript in his hands. 

“It is very good,” she stated, simply, her eyes overflowing with other things to say but the late hour (and, more than likely, her own embarrassment) restraining her. “Have you told him yet?”

Varric frowned. “Told who what?” 

“Tristan. That you are writing about him.” 

Oh. Shit. 

“Ah, no,” he said, starting down the stairs. “Not yet.” 

Apparently, Varric hadn’t even told himself that, yet. 

Curse his inability to write about fictional people in his fiction. Ah, well. That was something he could unpack tomorrow. Right now, bed was calling his name. 

_Dear Bianca,_

_Tristan and I destroyed another handful of red lyrium deposits in the Emerald Graves. That’s the last of them, as far as the Inquisition’s found. If you know of any others, send in more of your anonymous tips. The more of that shit we can take care of, the happier I’ll be._

_We just got back to Skyhold. Thank the Maker—I thought I’d never see a tavern again. I know I was complaining about going stir crazy here for a while there, but honestly, I’m full of shit. I’m a homebody, plain and simple. But what am I saying? You know that._

_Anyway, look._

_You can’t keep writing me shit like that. It’s killing me. Slowly. With a very dull meat hook. And it’s doing the same to you. Stop drunk-writing, asshole._

_Do let me know about those lyrium deposits, though._

_Yours,_

_V_

A familiar laugh bounced around the walls of the keep, and Varric looked up from his place by the fire and smiled. 

Hawke was back.

Varric put away his ink and strolled out of the great hall, standing at the top of the stairs and looking down. Sure enough, there he stood in the courtyard, handing his horse off to a soldier and chatting amiably with the Trevelyans. Tristan looked rapt. Theodora looked… patient. Hawke towered over both of them, but somehow they all stood with the same weight, the same power. 

“Someone call a painter,” Varric called, descending the stairs into the yard. “Three heroes of Thedas all in one place. They ought to put a verse about it in the Chant.”

“Shouldn’t that be your job, as our resident storyteller?” Theodora asked, grinning. She looked relieved. Varric wondered why. He couldn’t be that entertaining.

“Resident? Yes. Storyteller? Only occasionally.” 

A big hand clapped his shoulder, and only years of practice kept Varric from stumbling. “It’s good to see you, Varric,” said Hawke. “Glad to see you’re keeping yourself humble.” 

“Glad to see you’re keeping yourself in one piece,” said Varric. He looked between Hawke and Theodora. “How was the trip?” 

The two avoided each others’ eyes. 

“Well. Thank you,” said Theodora.

“We got the job done,” said Hawke. “Mostly. There’s a lot still to be done, but there’s a lot of planning to do, first.”

“And we’ll have to secure the Western Approach,” Theodora tacked on, and Hawke nodded and opened his mouth, and Varric could tell that if he let this happen, they’d be at it for hours.

“Alright, you two, play time’s over,” he interrupted. “I’m sure you’ve been talking logistics the entire ride back. I’m putting my foot down.” 

“On what authority?” Hawke ribbed, good-naturedly. “Theodora’s the Inquisitor, here.” 

“Mine,” said another voice. 

Brows went up, but Tristan held fast. “Varric’s right,” he went on. “You’re both exhausted. I don’t want to see either of you until you’ve had warm meals and a good long rest.”

Theodora narrowed her eyes, “Really, Tristan, I’m fine—“

Tristan stared her down. In that moment, they looked so much alike that Varric almost laughed (he and Hawke shared a look). 

“Alright,” Theodora relented. “I’ll go. But not because you told me, because I was planning on it anyway.” She nodded to Hawke. “We’ll talk later.”

“You know where to find me,” said Hawke, and said his own goodbyes. Varric watched them head off their separate ways, amused. And impressed. 

“Didn’t know you had it in you, Stormy,” he said, crossing his arms and grinning up at Tristan, who blinked like he was just remembering Varric was there, and went red in the ears. 

“Well,” he murmured. “Someone has to be the voice of reason.” 

“And it certainly can’t be me.”

“What? No, I—that’s not what I meant to… I never wanted to imply that—I only meant—“

“Easy,” Varric cut in. “Just a joke.” 

“Oh,” said Tristan. His eyes didn't seem to be able to look at anything in particular—especially not Varric. “Right. I see.”

Varric realized he was smiling, and didn’t know why, and when he tried to say something else found he couldn’t because the smile was in the way. _What?_

“So.” Tristan cleared his throat. His blush was finally under control, and he could meet Varric’s eyes for more than half a second at a time. “I finished your book.”

“Oh?” Thank the Maker, the conversation moved on before Varric broke something. “What did you think?” 

“It was very well-written,” said Tristan, graciously. 

“Sure,” Varric allowed, “But did you like it?”

“I…” Tristan hesitated. “No,” he admitted. “I didn’t, particularly.” 

Varric stared. A laugh burst out of his chest. Tristan reddened. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound rude—“

“No, no, it’s just—“ Varric caught his breath. “You’re the first person who’s ever said that to my face."

“I could lie to you, if you’d rather.”

“Nah, you couldn’t. I’d see right through it.” Tristan’s brows knitted, but he didn’t deny it. “So, tell me why you didn’t like it, then.” 

“Well.” Tristan looked down, kicked at a pebble. “Now I feel like an ass.” 

Feeling things, telling people about it, mild swearing—he was like a whole new person. 

“It’s not that I _didn’t_ like it,” Tristan defended. “I did enjoy your writing because, well, it was just like listening to one of your stories—only, reading it, you know. I just didn’t like.” He chewed his cheek, scowling, fingers searching the air for words to pluck out of it and toss back. “Firstly, Donnen is an _asshole._ He could’ve solved the case so much more efficiently if he’d just been kind to people when he asked questions, instead of barging around demanding answers.” 

“You know, most people like Donnen _because_ he’s an asshole.”

Tristan scrunched up his nose. _“Why?”_

Varric shrugged. “People like reading about someone who says out loud what regular people can usually only think.” 

“I don’t understand,” Tristan decided, therefore brushing off the topic and moving on. “Anyway, another thing was—“ He paused, eyes losing their fire and sliding off shyly. “But I’m sure you have better things to do than listen to me rant about things I didn't enjoy about your hard work. I’ll leave you be.”

“Stormy, this is the most passionate I’ve ever seen you about something that’s not shoving elfroot in your pocket,” Varric laughed. “Please, rant away. Consider me enrapt.” 

Tristan went pink, but for once it was from pleasure and not embarrassment. “If you’re sure I’m not keeping you from anything…”

“Nowhere I’d rather be,” Varric said, surprised to find he meant it more than he’d expected. “Why don’t we go for a walk? Hawke claims the mountain air is good for the soul.” Plus, if Tristan didn’t have some kinetic output for all that pent up energy, Varric was worried he’d combust. 

“Alright,” said Tristan, with a little smile, and led the way with an adorable little bounce in his step. “So, another thing—he’s an _awful_ detective. It was _so_ obvious that the wife was…”

“So,” murmured Leliana, materializing at Varric’s arm at the bar while he grabbed his table’s drinks. “You have been spending time with Lord Trevelyan, I see.”

“If by ‘spending time with him’ you mean living in the same castle, then yes, I have—and with everyone else in the place, you’ll find.”

“I was under the impression you thought him cold,” Leliana went on, following him back to the table.

“I did,” Varric acquiesced. “But turns out he’s just shy as shit. You come to make vague remarks, or to drink, Nightingale?” 

He looked up and she was gone. Spymasters for you. 

“Cheers, Varric,” Bull said as Varric set their drinks on the table, taking a tankard and tossing it back with relish. “I saw Red with you, what did she want?”

“Oh, just a question about one of my contacts,” said Varric, sliding into his seat beside Sera. “I asked her to join us, but her work never sleeps.”

“Nor does she,” observed Theodora, sitting next to Bull and looking absolutely tiny. 

“You’re one to talk, Inquisitor,” Varric smiled. “Glad to see we at least convinced you to stay. Can we also convince you to have a few rounds?”

“Oh, I’m not sure…” said Theodora. “I have an early morning, tomorrow.”

“Bah, come _on_ , Boss,” said Bull, shoving a tankard at her—it sloshed a little on the table, and Theodora glanced stealthily down to make sure none had spilled on her dress. “Every morning’s an early one, for you. You’ve got to unwind at least once in your life.”

“I unwind!” Theodora defended. “I unwind all the time.”

“Yeah?” Sera goaded. “Prove it, then.”

Theodora bit her lip, looking around at their three expectant faces, then steeled herself, gripped the tankard, and took a huge slug. She choked, and coughed into her fist.

Bull roared with approval. “ _That’s_ what I’m talking about, T!” he hollered, raising his tankard. “I’ll drink to that.”

“You’ll drink to anything, Tiny,” Varric smirked. 

“Damn straight.” 

“Damn _straights_ , now _that’s_ what _I’ll_ drink to,” Sera chimed in, and all four of them raised their glasses… then proceeded to get monumentally wasted. 

“So you’re telling me.” Theodora frowned, sticking her tongue out a little like maybe tasting the information might help. “ _You_ are telling _me_ that some of the pictures are better than the others?”

Sera and Bull groaned. 

“They’re worth more points,” Varric explained, again, patient and drunk-happy through the haze of alcohol.

“So if I’ve got three J’s and an A—“

“Jacks, and an ace,” Varric corrected.

“Right, s’what I said,” Theodora scoffed, brushing him aside. “Please don’t interrupt. So, if I’ve got… those, then that’s more points than a bunch of, er, say, twos, because they’re worth more?”

“Well, that depends.” 

“But you just said they’re worth more points!”

“But a flush of twos is still better.”

_“Vaaaariic,”_ Theodora groaned, putting her head on the table. “Why did you make it so _complicated?”_

“Flattered as I am by the assumption, _I_ didn’t invent cards, Inquisitor.” 

Her head remained on the table. Bull chuckled and patted her back, surprisingly gentle. “You’ll get the hang of it, Boss, don’t worry.”

“Yeah, ’n at least you can’t be as shit as Cullen,” Sera supplied, watching her drink swirl around the bottom of her cup with rapt eyes. 

Theodora’s head snapped up, eyes blazing (if glazed). “Cullen is _not_ shit,” she said, haughtily.

“Whoa, there,” Sera cackled. “Was only joking with ya, no need to go all crazy eyes.”

“He just—“ Theodora sniffed, looking off into the middle distance. Or maybe she couldn’t see. Hard to tell, at this point. “He just works so _hard_.” 

Bull and Varric exchanged looks over the rims of their tankards.

“—and I _worry_ about him. He needs to take better care of himself. I just wish he knew he deserved it, you know?” 

“Uh-huh,” said Bull. 

“Right! You get it,” Theodora said. “And—and he’s just so tired, all the time.” 

“And so very handsome,” Varric supplied, eyes glinting.

“Right! I mean—I mean—oh, dear.” So the blushing did run in the family. Theodora realized how they were all looking at her and sunk down as low in her seat as she could, dangerously close to sliding off under the table.

“You’ve watched him train the troops, right, Bull?” Varric went on, casually. “Remember the other day, when it was so hot out?”

“Of course,” Bull obliged. “And he had to take off all that armor, stripped down to his shirtsleeves.”

“As I recall, it was a pretty tight shirt, that day.”

“Hmm. Yes, I believe it was.”

“Clinging, with all that sweat shining on those rippling muscles, the hot sun beating down…” 

Theodora only unclenched her teeth to drain the entire remainder of Bull’s tankard. 

Bull and Varric discreetly high-fived. Sera blew a raspberry and gagged. “You two are _disgusting_ ,” she said. 

“By the way, Boss,” said Bull, leaning back in his chair. The legs creaked ominously. “Not that I mind, but you might not want to go around tossing back other people’s drinks like that. Specifically, mine.”

The Inquisitor tilted her head. She was definitely having a hard time sitting up, now. “Why? What was in it?”

Bull’s only answer was a low, rumbling laugh. 

The next day, Varric didn’t see Theodora until dinner, when she looked like she’d just crawled out of the Fallow Mire. So much for that early morning, then.

It was the third time that week that Varric had found Hawke and Tristan conspiring together. 

Well. More like “talking together like normal living beings.” But _conspiring_ had that nice flair to it. 

“Don’t let me interrupt,” he said, when the two spotted him walking up and paused whatever they were saying (which meant they’d been talking about him. Varric… wasn’t sure how to feel about that). 

“I was actually just going,” said Tristan. “I lost track of time—Theodora asked me to join the war table meeting this afternoon. Excuse me.” He bowed his head to each of them—still hadn’t lost _all_ of that old rigidity, that old formality—and strode away. 

“You know,” said Hawke, leaning over the battlements to look out at the snowcaps. “I’m going to miss him. I enjoy our talks.”

“What?” asked Varric. “When?” 

“When I return to Weisshaupt, after this business with the Grey Wardens is over.” Hawke peeked at him out of the corner of his eye, mouth a half-smile. “You didn’t think I’d be sticking around here forever, did you?” 

“To be honest,” _I’d been trying not to think about it,_ “I was starting to think you’d _never_ leave.” 

Hawke knew he was lying. He always did. But he didn’t call him on it, and Varric didn’t have to explain because he understood. Hawke being on the run meant this was the longest they’d been in the same place in… what, a year? Two? 

It’d be hard to give that up. But so it goes. They’d burn that bridge when they got to it.

“What do you two talk about, anyway?” Varric asked.

“Family,” Hawke shrugged. “How to handle having a thousand people counting on your decisions. Gossip. Dogs.” Another one of those sly, corner-of-the-eye glances. “He asks about you, an awful lot.” 

Varric sighed, half-grimaced. “I’d noticed.” Of course he had. Tristan was about as subtle as chain lightning. You’d have to live under a rock not to know he had heart eyes for Varric, and Varric was no deep roads dwarf. Far from it. 

Hawke waggled his (admittedly impressive) eyebrows. “And?” 

“And what?”

“Have you any thoughts on that?” 

Below, outside the gates, some of the troops lit a campfire, followed in succession by a dozen more, flaring up like beacons or stars. Varric was quiet for a moment. 

“I don’t know,” he said, finally. 

“Well, I do,” Hawke boasted. He nudged Varric’s shoulder. “You like him.”

“Of course I like him. I accidentally wrote a damn book about him.” 

“You _like_ like him.” 

“Watch it, chuckles. I’ve spent years building up the charming, suave persona you see before you—too long for you to go around destroying it by saying shit like that.”

Hawke made kissy faces at his cheek and Varric shoved him away, laughing and shaking his head. 

“Seriously, though,” said Hawke. “I say go for it. What’s the worst that could happen?”

“I lose interest, distrust my own feelings, freak out over commitment, and break his heart,” Varric deadpanned. “Not necessarily in that order.”

“Ah,” said Hawke, scratching his chin. “Yikes.” 

Varric pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to overshare like that. Can we forget about this?”

“No! Don’t you dare apologize. Look at me.” 

Varric grimaced. Hawke took him by the shoulders and spun him around, staring deeply into his eyes. 

“Garrett…” Varric warned. 

“You,” said Hawke, ignoring him. “Are Varric fucking Tethras, bestselling author, badass rogue, charming son of a bitch. You’ve fought dragons. You’ve helped save Kirkwall, your home—“

“ _Save_ is a strong word.”

“—You’ve got the most badass best friend in all Thedas—“

A laugh bubbled up despite himself. “Oh, _do_ I now?”

“—and you deserve happiness just as much as, if not more than anyone else.” 

Varric closed his eyes and breathed. Hawke squeezed his shoulders, then let him go. 

“Just think about it,” he finished. “That’s all I’m saying.” 

“Alright,” Varric relented. _Alright_. 

“I love you!”

“Love you, too, asshole.” 

It was impossible not to smile back when Hawke beamed like that, big-toothed and guileless. Most badass might be a stretch, but _best_ friend? That sounded pretty right to Varric. 

_Dear Bianca,_

_Everyone here is losing their heads over Celene’s Winter Ball that’s coming up next month. I swear, I’ve never seen so many people with sewing needles in my life. And the dancing! Everywhere I turn, I’m tripping over an impromptu, furious waltz. I even caught Cullen practicing his steps earlier today._

_It’s times like this I’m glad Skyhold doesn’t give a rat’s ass about what fork you use, so long as you don’t waste your food. Although, right now, Ruffles and Thea are tearing their hair out trying to teach Tiny and Buttercup which spoon goes in the soup and which one goes up your ass._

_Haha, just kidding. Even the Orlesians can’t tell that difference._

_But, seriously. Orlesian diplomacy training is rough on morale. I heard rumors of defenestration._

_How are things on your end?_ _I’ve been thinking about you recently._ _Tristan asked me about the crossbow again the other day, and it’s what made me remember I hadn’t written recently. Don’t worry, I’ll never tell._

_Remember how I said I didn’t know what to make of him? I’ve changed my mind. Once you get past that shell,_ ~~ _he’s downright adorable_~~ _~~he reminds me of~~ __he’s not so bad._

_Yours,_

_V_

  
“You know, my aunt and uncle are Grey Wardens,” said Tristan, after he and Varric had walked in companionable silence for some minutes. Theodora and Hawke were busy in the war room, settling what they could before the Ball completely overruled everything else, so when Tristan could find neither of them, he’d sought out Varric. 

At least, that was the long-winded excuse Tristan had given in the great hall. 

“Oh?” said Varric. “Then what the hell are we doing in the Western Approach?”

“They went underground several years ago,” Tristan explained, pulling his coat around himself. For once, his nose was pink from the cold, not blush. Even at noon, with the sun high above, winter in Skyhold was brutal. “I haven’t seen or heard from them properly in a long time. I… try not to think about it. But I know they’re alive,” he rushed.

“Huh.” Varric searched for a tactful way of asking _how the fuck could you possibly know that?_

Tristan looked over, and one of his rare smiles appeared. “What makes me so sure?” he guessed. He stopped, reached into his collar, and retrieved a small, simple, cylindrical pendant, which glowed a soft gold. “Before he left, my uncle gave me this.” 

“Ah, the old glowing necklace trick. I assume it’s for more than just decoration?” 

“He has its match,” said Tristan, twirling the pendant between his fingers. “If something happens to him—or to me—the light dies.” 

“How’s that work?” 

Tristan made a noncommittal sound and avoided answering, and since Varric could sort of guess the answer and would rather not know, he didn’t press. 

“Well, that’s good for you, Stormy. I imagine you two were close, then?” 

“Yes.” Tristan started walking again, tucking the pendant back inside his shirt. 

“And Thea, has she got one too?”

“No.” Tristan chewed the inside of his cheek, looking away. “In fact, I’d appreciate it if you kept this between us. She… she doesn’t know about it.” 

Varric couldn’t hide his surprise. “Didn’t pin you as the secret-keeping type.” 

“I’m not—not from her, but… He asked me to keep it between us. For obvious reasons, but also because.” Tristan seemed chagrined to say the next. “I think I’ve always been his favorite. Uncle Emeric made little secret of that, though Aunt Amelie tried, and Thea could always see that. I think he didn’t want to upset her by not giving her one.” 

“Ah,” said Varric. He never quite knew what to do when Tristan had his rare moments of openness, except to listen and try to react at all the right places. “Makes sense.”

They came to the garden, where sisters and builders were busy at work. Their walks often ended up here. It was Tristan’s baby, this place, and all the green things sprouting from the pots and beds. Varric had noticed Tristan’s head always spun slower here. It was a sight to behold. 

There was a little stone bench at one of the corners, secluded within the half-walls and ivy. Tristan sat, and Varric followed his lead. It was obvious there was still something on his mind, and sure enough, after a long pause, Tristan, shakily, began to speak again.

“I think—“ he started, then stopped. Varric stayed patient, waited until Tristan had sorted out the right words in his mind and begun again. “When I was a teenager, I… I did the math, in my head. You know, Thea’s not much younger than I?” 

“A year, right?” 

Tristan’s eyes, when they met Varric’s, were piercing. “Eight months.” 

Varric put the pieces together. A Grey Warden couple with a noble family, an estate where a child could do well—much better than a life on the run from the Calling—a brother and sister-in-law with a baby of their own on board, the favoritism, a pendant… 

“Shit,” said Varric, staring at Tristan. 

“Shit,” Tristan agreed, staring at his knees. The wheels were starting to spin again, fast enough Varric could hardly keep up. “I’ve—I’ve never told anyone that, not Thea, not my parents—“ A brief laugh on the word, a crinkle of doubt at the corners of his eyes, “—not my aunt and uncle, just Teddy. And you, now.” 

“Teddy?” 

“My older brother. Lord Trevelyan.” The title fit oddly in Tristan’s mouth, like he was afraid saying it might summon the owner. “That first night, when I figured it out, I didn’t know who to talk to, but I had to tell _someone_ , so I—I went to Teddy. I never went to him about _anything_ , he’s just… He’s so good. There’s no one like him in the world. I knew if I’d figured it out, he _must_ have, and then I’d have proof and that would be enough to settle my mind on the matter, but…” Tristan stared off. 

“But?” Varric prompted. Tristan jumped, like he’d forgotten Varric was there. 

“He didn’t believe me. He told me, in that calm way of his, I should stop making things up in my head, and worry about doing something productive.” 

“Yeesh,” said Varric. “Sounds almost like _my_ brother, except the things I’d make up were actually made up.” 

Tristan hummed, which was as close to laughter as Varric had ever seen him. “He didn’t believe me, but he listened. And when I told him I didn’t want—“ He blinked fast. “I told him I didn’t ever want to not be his brother, and he took me by the arms and said I’d always be his brother, no matter what.”

Varric had a moment where his mind flashed back to Hawke’s hands squeezing his shoulders, _You deserve happiness just as much, if not more_.

“I’ll never forget him saying that,” said Tristan. “He’s not one for speaking from the heart, but that I’ll never forget.” 

Varric opened his mouth, and for one of the only times in his life, couldn’t think of a single damn thing to say. Tristan shook himself as though coming out of a long sleep. 

“Thank you, Varric, for listening to all that,” he said, finally facing Varric properly. “I apologize for putting it on you, it’s just, all this preparation for the Winter Ball, with everyone milling around with cutlery and court etiquette and formal attire, it reminds me of what it was like back home. I didn’t realize I’ve missed it until now.” 

“Are you kidding?” Varric laughed, trying to cheer him up. “That’s the best story I’ve heard in a long time. You’re lucky I wasn’t taking notes.” 

Tristan turned green. “You can’t—“

“I know,” Varric assured him. “Don’t worry, my lips are sealed.” 

At the mention of lips, Tristan’s eyes flickered down to Varric’s, before he realized what he was doing and they snapped back up, cheeks red. Poor guy. Varric almost started shaking his head. 

“I’m glad you told me,” said Varric. “That’s a lot to keep inside you.” 

“Yes.” Tristan’s mouth twisted. “It is.” 

“Ah, Ser Trevelyan, just the man I was hoping to see.”

They turned. Mother Giselle stood on the other side of the half wall, smiling the smile only revered mothers like her seemed to have the recipe for. “I hope I am not intruding, it is just I was wondering if Madam Inquisitor told you about my request for crystal grace…?”

Tristan leapt to his feet, “Oh, yes,” he said. “My apologies, I keep forgetting to bring it by. Let me go get it, now.” He started off, then stopped, turned around. “Thank you again, Varric. I really enjoyed our walk. I—“ His cheeks flushed. “I’ll speak with you later.” 

Varric tossed him a wave and an easy grin. “I’ll hold you to it.”

If Tristan almost tripped over the garden wall walking backwards, well—Varric would keep that bit of personal information to himself, too. 

  
A raven pecked at Varric’s window while he was trying to think. He’d been going through a bit of a writer’s block, recently, and decided to blame it on all the noise around the place instead of what it was really about. 

“Come on in,” he said, opening the window. “Make yourself at home. Can I get you anything? Coffee? Whiskey?” The raven hopped inside and shook its foot at him. Varric opened the carrying tube tied to its ankle and unfurled the note. 

_Varric,_

_Rumor says a certain Trevelyan* has been daydreaming about you. Consider this at tomorrow night’s Winter Ball._

_Regards,_

_X & O _

_*NOT Theodora_

Varric blinked at the note, chuckled, and pocketed it. X & O, huh? This had Leliana’s doing plastered all over it. He knew the woman was a romantic at heart. Not to mention the handwriting—Theodora’s.

He would be annoyed (what did all these people want with him, interfering with his decisions?), but he couldn’t be. They were harmless. 

Besides, he’d already told Hawke he’d think about it. And he had. A lot.

He’d thought about it a lot. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for all the support, everyone, it really means a lot! i love seeing your kudos and reading your comments (esp. comments)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> note the change of rating—also no spoilers, but any intimate scenes in this would be denoted by an *, at which point one who does not wish to read such a scene might instead finish the chapter there :-)
> 
> also, strap in, this one's long as hell

Instead of worrying about how any second, shit could hit the chandelier and all hell could break loose, Varric focused on the fact that underneath the game and the political intrigue and the hidden assassins, this was all just one big party. 

And Varric was great at parties. 

“…So one minute, I’m facing down a coterie boss in the middle of the night with nothing but my smallclothes and a half-empty bottle of Antivan wine, and the next, she’s my editor.” 

“ _Fascinating_ ,” one of the ladies crooned. “You must be so brave.” 

“On the contrary, I’d be the first to tell you I’m the biggest coward in Thedas,” Varric laughed. To make people really like you, you had to intersperse the big dramatic lies with little personal truths. “That’s why I write, so I don’t have to be the one doing all the brave shit.”

“Oh, but you _are_. You must be, to write so well as you,” said another of the women. Varric swore she’d switched places with someone, or else changed dresses telepathically. Maker, where were they all coming from? 

“How did you get the idea for your—how you say— _Hard in Hightown?_ We _must_ know,” said the third. 

“We must!” the first insisted. 

The Winter Palace’s garden was as grand as it was expensive. Marble greeted guests at every corner, columns and railings and statues. Great big shrubberies, too, and flowers Varric couldn’t name, and ivy, but _tasteful_ ivy, not free and overgrown like the stuff at Skyhold.

Varric leaned back on the railing, propping himself with one hand, and the feeling of that ivy under his palm reminded him of where he was, jarred him out of the debonair facade he’d put on for the Orlesian court. Here were these beautiful noblewomen fawning over themselves and praising _Hard in Hightown_ , and all Varric could think about was how much more he’d appreciated the plain honesty on Tristan’s face when he’d said, _No. I didn’t like it._

He couldn’t see these people’s faces at all. 

And Varric loved parties, loved to entertain and Maker knew he loved the sound of his own voice, but suddenly he realized he’d rather be somewhere else.

He sighed dramatically, extracting himself from the wall. “Sorry, Comtesses, that story will have to wait for another time,” he said. “I just remembered I have to see a man about a nug.”

“But, Ser Tethras, what about—“ one gasped. Varric was already slipping back indoors.

Inside the great hall, strings’ voices rang out against the towering ceiling, as below it, couples glided and spun in time. 

He scanned the dancers, smiled at a few familiar faces, then moved on. Across the mezzanine, he spied two of the most important people in a hall full of Comtes and Comtesses, magistrates and princesses and Empresses. Even from this distance, it was impossible to miss people doing double takes as they walked by the drinks table and recognized the Herald of Andraste. 

Tristan was also there. As Varric approached, he saw him knock back a flute of champagne.

“—…you going?” Varric heard Theodora ask as he came in earshot. They hadn’t noticed him—perfect. He leaned on the table and watched.

Tristan released a shuddering breath. “Yes,” he said, feet planted. 

Theodora gave him an unimpressed once-over. “Any time tonight?”

_“Yes_ , I’m going right now,” Tristan said, far too defensively for an obvious liar, then grabbed another glass of champagne. The perfect time for Varric to take pity and made his presence known.

“Trevelyans,” he greeted, perfectly amicable. Tristan Trevelyan, second son of House Trevelyan and right hand of the Herald, choked on champagne and had a horrible coughing fit in the Grand Hall of Empress Celene. Varric would remember this forever.

“Hello, Varric,” said Theodora, cordial but with laughter just behind her eyes. “Come to refill your drink?”

“And to get away from my new fans among the Orlesian nobility. Who knew so many of them read my shit?” Varric laughed, following Theodora’s lead in ignoring Tristan’s predicament. “Anyway, I also thought I might squeeze a dance in.” 

“Oh!” Theodora’s eyes flitted around the room. “Well. I’m already dancing with… Josephine now.” Varric knew, for a fact, Josephine was on the floor with the Comte du Ripierre. “So I guess you’ll have to make do with my brother. My sincerest apologies.” 

Tristan’s eyes, when Varric snuck him a conspiratory smile over Theodora’s shoulder, were as wide as the ceilings in this place. “Don’t worry about it,” said Varric, offering Theodora a wink and Tristan his hand. “Shall we, Lord Trevelyan?” 

As Theodora retreated from sight, Tristan swallowed the last of his glass and took Varric’s hand—his own shaking slightly, but his voice strong and confident. “ _Absolutely_.” 

And Varric found himself pulled down the grand stairs to the dance floor.

It quickly became clear that Tristan was drunk. Not enough to be hazardous (except, maybe, for Varric’s feet), but enough that he started humming along to the orchestra and got this goofy look about him. 

“You know this song?” Varric asked, hiding his laughter. Tristan nodded. 

“Of course,” he boasted. “I know a lot of songs.” 

“Of course,” Varric echoed. “Forgive me for underestimating your musical understanding.”

Tristan hummed, frowning like he had to consider it. “Alright,” he decided, and though Varric knew it was (probably?) a joke, he almost felt the urge to sigh in relief. 

The song changed, and Tristan’s face lit up. “I love this one!” he said. Varric almost did a double take. A Trevelyan? Openly expressing his opinion without being asked? He _must_ be drunk, that or Varric was dreaming. 

With the change of song, the partners around them sorted into circles. Tristan dutifully joined the nearest, then frowned over his shoulder when he realized Varric hadn’t moved. “Varric, the dance is about to—“

“Ah, Stormy?” said Varric. Best to just get it out with. He’d deal with seeing Tristan’s disappointed face later—it was better than humiliating himself and the entire Inquisition. “It pains me to say this, but I have absolutely no fucking idea what’s going on right now.” 

A nobleman gasped and shot him a scornful look, murmuring something in Orlesian to his friend. Varric could not give any amount of shit about that, though, because Tristan’s face had just burst into the biggest grin in the world and laughter bubbled out of his chest like a summer storm. 

It was only then, when Tristan—still laughing—shot across the floor, grabbed Varric’s hand, and pulled him upstairs just as the circles began to twirl like throwing stars, that Varric knew he hadn’t made a mistake. 

“I think you just saved my life,” Varric said once they were on the terrace, and he meant it as a joke but the words kind of stuck in his mouth. Luckily, Tristan was still too busy laughing to notice—he kept trying to reign it in but it came back in fits and giggles, until finally he had to double over the railing and take deep gulps of air. 

“Your— _face,”_ he gasped. “I wish you could’ve seen it. You were so— _afraid_ —“ Another fit of laughter.

“I wish you could see your face right now,” Varric countered, leaning his back on the railing beside Tristan and crossing his arms over his chest. 

Finally, Tristan had calmed down, though his eyes still shone when he tipped his head in confusion. “What do you mean?” 

Varric gestured at him. “Happiness looks good on you.” 

Tristan’s mouth dropped open a little and he looked shyly away. “I—“ he stammered. “Varric—“

_Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Don’t let him say anything_. Varric wasn’t new at flirting, did it all the time—it even came to fruition often enough—but it had been a long time since he’d felt like _this_. If one more word came out of Tristan’s mouth, Varric might throw up, and that wasn’t like him. He didn’t get nervous, he didn’t panic, he didn’t get shy. 

It was fucking terrifying. He would sooner take his chances vaulting over this balcony than hear another word of this right now. He needed time, he needed… _What the fuck did he even need right now?_

Tristan paused, smile slipping. “Are you alright?”

“Alright, boys. Boss says it’s time to suit up.” They turned and saw Bull standing in the archway. “We’ve got ourselves an assassin to assassin.” 

Varric wanted to fall to his knees and pray to the Maker for thanks. After this, he was going to buy Bull the whole damn tavern. 

  
The door to Varric’s quarters burst open and a shadow cast between the fire and his pen. Varric only missed a beat. 

“Why, Ser Hawke,” he said, steepling his fingers and spinning his desk chair around, batting his eyelashes. “How bold of you to burst in like that unannounced—and at this hour. What if I’d been naked?” 

Hawke, who’d just opened his mouth to speak, closed it and blinked, taken aback. “What?”

“Tactful as ever, Hawke,” Varric said, laughing softly. He spun back around and reached for his pen, only to hear three quick, long strides and have it snatched up from under his hand. 

“You’ve been avoiding him,” Hawke accused, waving the pen threateningly. What was it Varric had read somewhere? About the pen being mightier than the sword only if the pen is very sharp…

Varric leaned back in his seat. “Who?”

“Oh, you know, Master Dennet—who the _fuck_ do you think?” 

Varric ducked out of the way of a jab. “Hey, watch it—“

“You know, he thinks _he’s_ the one who’s done something wrong.” 

“If Master Dennet’s worried something’s wrong with the horses, he should probably be taking that up with Curly, or the Inquisitor,” Varric said, reasonably, taking advantage of Hawke’s red-faced fury to kick off the floor, rolling his chair across the room to the fireplace. 

“What—you—get back here!”

“Sorry, Hawke, you know I’d love to stay and chat, but I just remembered Cassandra needed something from me.” Varric hopped out of his chair and started towards the door. “If you’ll excuse me—“

Hawke planted himself in front of the door. “Varric.”

Ah, shit. 

Varric held his shoulders back and did his best to challenge Hawke’s stance. “Garrett.”

Hawke pointed at one of the chairs by the fire, and didn’t stop pointing until Varric heaved a sigh and stomped over to slump into it. 

A log on the fire split into embers and the brief burst of flame lit up Hawke’s face as he took the opposite seat. Despite the imposing visual, Hawke’s eyes were soft when he said, “Talk to me.” 

Varric rested his elbow on the armrest and put his forehead in his hand. “Maker, Hawke, why can’t you just leave me alone?”

“Did you leave me alone and let me lock myself away when Fenris left?” Hawke asked, blunt. “Did you leave me alone when I couldn’t sleep after Carver died? Did you leave me alone when I couldn’t see a white fucking flower without throwing up?” 

“That—those aren’t the same as this, and you know it. Not even close.” 

“Maybe,” Hawke allowed. “But you’re my friend, and you’re in pain, and I’m not leaving you alone unless someone kills me first.” 

“Careful, plenty of people would take you up on that. Myself included.” 

“Varric.” There it was. Game over voice—a sharper, smaller blade than the sword he’d wielded until now, a scalpel to cut straight to the root. There’d be no more arguing. “Just talk to me.” 

Varric watched the fire crackle. “I don’t really know, myself,” he admitted. “It’s just—“ He sighed, grimaced. "There hasn’t been anyone, since. You know.” 

There was no response. Varric scowled and looked up— _what the hell did this guy want, demanding he talk and then not saying anything when he finally—_

Hawke’s eyes were wide with barely-contained surprise. “ _No one_ since Bianca?” 

Varric wanted to throw something at him. “No, not _nobody_ , just—“ He scratched the back of his neck. “Nobody important.” 

“So you’re freaking out… because you like him?” 

“No,” Varric said, slowly and deliberately to the fire, “Because I like him, and he’s not Bianca.” 

The air could be cut with a butterknife, and Varric wished it would be. Hawke shook his head, incredulous.

“You and Bianca haven’t been together for more than ten years.”

“I know.” 

“You don’t even love her anymore.”

“I know,” said Varric, but that time it was a lie. The truth was, he wasn't sure, didn’t know if he ever would be.

“You aren’t replacing her by giving it a shot with Tristan,” said Hawke. “You’re not losing what you had. You’re just moving on. And I’ve said it before and I’ll say it a thousand more times, you deserve that.” 

Varric stared at his knees.

“At the very least, stop avoiding him. The poor guy’s practically in hysterics every time I see him.”

“I just needed time.” 

“People like us don’t get time, Varric. Especially with all the shit that’s happening.” 

“How very optimistic of you, Champion.”

Hawke spread his hands. “One of my many talents, along with relationship counseling and juggling.” 

Varric laughed, relieved that he could. Hawke always knew how to get him out of his head. “You sure you’re headed to Weisshaupt after we take Adamant?” he asked. “The Inquisition’s short on jugglers.” 

“Tempting.” Hawke stood, grinning easily. “But if I don’t return soon, Fenris will be storming the gates, and I don’t think he’d mix well with some of the folks here.”

“You mean _all_ of the folks here.” 

Hawke’s face misted over with a goofy, lovelorn look. “Yeah.” 

Maker, Varric hoped _he_ didn’t ever look like that. Shit was embarrassing. 

In the doorway, Hawke paused, fixed Varric with a last hard look, and jabbed a finger at him. “Don’t make me have this talk with you again.” 

“Consider me suitably talked to.” 

The door clicked shut, and Varric sunk deep into his chair, rolling his eyes to the ceiling. Maker help him. He should get back to writing. As he stood, he caught sight of his copy of _The Tale of the Champion_ on the mantle, snug between the rest of his collection, and he smiled. Even gone, Hawke was still there watching out for him. 

  
“What’s all this shit?” 

“Oh, hello, Varric. Sorry, I can’t talk now, I have to make sure the door handles are polished,” Tristan rushed as he took long, purposeful strides through the great hall, expertly dodging workers setting up big wooden tables and draping them with elegant linens. 

Varric stared at his back, then raised an eyebrow at Josephine, who didn’t look up from her clipboard. 

“Door handles?” 

“Preparations for the banquet tonight,” said Josephine, off-handed, catching the attention of a passing woman. “Hara, would you please take this list to Madam Carina in the kitchens? Thank you.” 

“What banquet?” 

Josephine laughed the polite laugh of someone who didn’t actually think a joke was funny. “Please, Varric, we have been planning this for weeks—oh, dear.” Her eyes fixed on one of the people draping tablecloths. “Maurice, the skirt must hang four inches above the floor—“

And she was gone, too. Varric decided the most tactical move was to escape the great hall as soon as possible, before someone tried to polish his shoes. 

“Hoping, fearing, push and pull.” Cole sat on the stairs that led down to the courtyard, staring intently at something above. “You want him to be proud, but you also want to be him— _what if he doesn’t recognize me?”_

“What’s that, kid?” Varric asked, following Cole’s gaze. Up on the balcony, Tristan was trying to use a broom to beat the dust out of the Inquisition banner. “Ah. So you noticed something was up, too. Thought it was just me.” 

“He’s hurting,” said Cole, suddenly at Varric’s side. “But it’s a long hurt, a bruise that never healed. _He’ll always be my brother but will I always be his?”_

An especially hard whack of the broom had Tristan nearly falling off the ladder, before someone caught the legs and held it steady. Conversation Varric couldn’t make out. Tristan climbed down and disappeared inside. 

“You should go to him,” said Cole. “It will help.”

“I don’t know, kid. According to my sources, he’s not exactly happy with me right now.“

“You’re quiet,” said Cole. “He’s loud and bright and spinning, spinning, but you give him quiet, you hold him still.” 

“Excuse me, ser.” 

Varric stood aside so someone could carry a basket of flowers past him up the steps, murmuring something apologetic but too lost in thought to know what.

_“Eyes, blue—bright blue. You can’t quite remember her eyes anymore, but his are right here in front of you, laughing, looking.”_

“Kid,” Varric said, turning, “remember how I explained thinking with our inside voices can sometimes—“ He stopped. Cole was gone. No use wasting breath. Besides, he had a Trevelyan to find.

Which may be harder than he’d expected. In the few minutes Varric had been gone, the population of the great hall had doubled, and despite having seen him moments before, Tristan was nowhere. 

“Crazy, yeah?” Sera was at his side, tossing an apple back and forth between her hands and surveying the chaos. “What gives? It’s just a big dinner, innit? Throw some plates on the table and there you go.”

“I have a feeling this one’s more than just a dinner,” said Varric, distracted—he’d just caught a glimpse of black hair disappearing around a doorway. “If anyone asks, I was never here. Also, don’t let T catch you with that apple.” 

“Pffft, I’m not _stupid_. And ooh, secrets! What are you up to, dwarfy?” 

“Couldn’t say.” 

“Why not?”

“Secrets, remember?” He winked, for good measure, then made a beeline for the doorway. 

“Your secrets are bollocks anyway!” she shouted after him. 

He found Tristan in the kitchens fussing over silverware. 

“They aren’t the same color,” he fretted, holding up two absolutely identical forks. “How are we to claim to be a united front against Corypheus if we don’t even have uniform silverware?” 

“Looks fine to me, ser,” said one of the cooks with a lackadaisical shrug. Tristan’s grip on one of the forks tightened to the point it looked like it was about to bend, and his eyes flashed like lightning. 

“Whoa, there, Stormy.” Varric pried the utensil free and placed it in a huge basket of its mates. “I’m pretty sure Corypheus isn’t worried about the state of our forks.”

“Varric,” Tristan breathed, looking down at him with wide eyes. He blinked, and the telltale scowl returned, this time aimed at an unlucky young kitchen aid. 

“When were these last polished?” 

“J-just this morning, ser.”

“And the spoons?”

“All of it, ser.” 

“Then _why_ ,” asked Tristan, in a tone that would have been reasonable had the whites of his eyes not been visible. “Are they down _here_ and not _upstairs on the tables?_ Do I have to do everything my—“

“Alright, that’s enough of that.” Varric took Tristan by the arms and physically steered him—to indignant protest—out of the kitchen.

“Varric, _what_ are you—please let go of me, I have a lot to look after and I don’t have time—now or ever—to be treated like a child.”

“I’m not treating you like a kid,” said Varric, letting go and holding his hands up. “I’m treating you like someone I care about who needs to relax.” 

Something softened behind Tristan’s eyes, behind the blaze. “Oh,” he said, quietly. “That’s… that’s very kind of you to say, but I must get back to work. No one’s made sure the bannisters were polished and I know for a fact the stained glass windows in the great hall haven’t been cleaned in days—“

“Stormy.”

“—not to mention I need to ask Josephine about double-checking the seating chart and—“

“Hey.” 

“—and—is it hot in here? Do you think it’s hot? Maker, I just sent someone to put extra logs in the fireplaces—“

“ _Tristan_.” 

Tristan’s mouth snapped shut and his back went perfectly straight, the picture of noble obedience despite the darting eyes and the tremor in his hands. Varric had never met the senior Lord and Lady Trevelyan, but he had never wanted to punch anyone more in his life. 

He reigned in his anger. There wasn’t time for that now. Tristan needed him. He put on a calm, reassuring smile, and held out his hand. “Come with me?” 

Carefully, so carefully, as though to make sure it was real, Tristan took his hand. 

  
Seeing all the people bustling around on the way through Skyhold, Tristan worked himself back into a state, but the garden was empty, and quiet except for the wind in the sparse company of trees, and Tristan’s breathing almost evened out once Varric sat him down on the secluded little bench. 

“There, see? All you needed was some air. Good as new.” 

“Does that mean I can—“ Tristan began, making to stand. Varric pushed him back down by the shoulders. 

“No, no, no, you sit there and breathe.” 

Tristan closed his eyes and took in a long, shuddering breath through his nose. Opened his eyes. “Would you—“ he said, then turned red up to his ears, then seemed to give up on embarrassment. “Would you sit with me?” 

Varric squeezed his shoulder and smiled, reassuring. “Of course.” And he sat beside him, not touching, just present, and listened to a bird peck at some dirt and the wind and Tristan’s breath getting steadier by the moment. 

After a long time, Varric nudged Tristan so he’d open his eyes. “Wanna tell me what’s going on? Why I’ve never once seen you set foot in the kitchen and now all the sudden you’re Tristan Trevelyan, second son of House Trevelyan and knight-champion of fork uniformity?” 

That got a smile out of him. A small, flickering smile, that faded as soon as it appeared, but Varric wasn’t one to deny himself points. 

“Teddy will be here tonight,” Tristan said. 

“Your brother?” 

Tristan nodded. 

“Ah.” That explained everything. 

“I just need everything to be perfect. Because—because _he’s_ perfect, and if he doesn’t like something I’ll—“ The breathing started picking up again. “What if he doesn’t like it here? What if he sees what we’ve been doing and he thinks we’ve been wasting our time? What if—“

“You really think he’s going to discount all the shit you and the Inquisitor have done for Thedas just because the bannisters aren’t polished?” 

“You don’t know Teddy. He—he’s just so.” Tristan exhaled. “I just need him to like it. And…” He shook his head, looked at his lap. “Never mind.” 

“ _Never mind_ , you don’t really think what you were going to say, or _never mind_ , you’re scared to say it?” 

“It’s _hard_ for me to talk like this, Varric,” he snapped. “It goes against what I’ve been taught my entire life, so please don’t—“

“Hey, hey, it’s alright, I wasn’t trying to force anything out of you. Hell, you don’t have to tell me anything at all if you don’t want to.” 

“I _do_ want to,” said Tristan, like he was announcing some grave illness. “That’s what’s really frightening. I…” He closed his eyes, lashes resting on proud cheekbones, all of the sudden still, like sleep. When he spoke, his mouth barely moved. “I’m just afraid he’ll be disappointed, because I’m not enough like him.”

When Tristan opened his eyes, he found Varric staring at him like he was the stupidest person alive. 

“Why the _fuck,_ ” Varric asked, “would you want to be anyone but yourself?” 

Tristan jerked back, first shocked, then angry. “Because there are so many people _better_ than me!” he yelled, then started listing them off on his fingers, like that would prove it, “Cassandra, Hawke, Leliana, Thea, Cullen, Bull—“ 

“I don’t think there are,” Varric interrupted.

Tristan froze, blush rising in his cheeks, and stammered, “I—um, what?” 

“I don’t think,” Varric repeated, slow and deliberate, “there’s anyone out there better than you.” And he put a hand on the back of Tristan’s neck, brushed the pad of his thumb over his lips, and kissed him. 

The bird pecking at the dirt found what it was looking for and flew off, and Tristan’s mouth opened against Varric’s in a terrified gasp. But Varric kept his hand threaded in Tristan’s hair, kept kissing him, as Tristan’s shaking hands hovered in the air between them before gripping Varric’s shirt and pulling him closer, closer, melting, forgetting there was anything but this. 

Even when they parted, Tristan tried to follow, eyes half-lidded and dazed. “Oh,” he whispered. Varric couldn’t help a quiet laugh. Had he expected Varric to have disappeared? “Varric, I… that… did you…” 

“You know, I’m glad you’re feeling better about talking,” Varric murmured, brushing Tristan’s hair off his forehead where it had fallen out of place and pressing his other hand to his chest, “but usually I try to discourage that kind of thing at times like this.” 

They’d have to talk eventually, but for the time being, Tristan was more than happy to keep his thoughts to himself. 

  
“What are you up to,” Cassandra accused, brows narrowed with suspicion as she looked Varric—leaning arms-crossed on the great hall wall, watching the nobility mingle—up and down. 

“Why, Seeker, what’s the occasion?” Varric asked, giving Cassandra his own once-over. She was dressed in the kind of clothes the person who’d forced her into would soon be caught dead in. 

“What are you talking about—oh, _this?”_ Cassandra looked down at herself and made a disgusted noise. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“So you’re enjoying the party, then.” 

“And what does that mean _you_ are doing?”

Varric smiled. “People watching.”

“I imagined you would be out there harassing the guests with your tales.” 

“In due time, Seeker. In due time.” Across the room, Varric could see (and hear) Bull laughing with Theodora and Tristan, and even with all these people around, Tristan had a subtle, pleased smile on his face. 

Cassandra followed his gaze. “I heard a rumor,” she said. Varric’s stomach dropped, but outwardly he stayed unmoved. 

“You know what they say about rumors.” 

“This one came from an… interesting source.”

At the far end of the hall, a herald announced, “Lord Theodore Trevelyan, of House Trevelyan.”

The Trevelyans charged the door. 

“Excuse me, Seeker.” Varric extracted himself from the wall. “This is something I’ve got to see.” 

Lord Trevelyan—that was, Teddy—looked like the man Varric used to think Tristan was, only older and more practiced at it. He had the same striking black hair as his siblings, though with the beginnings of gray at his temples, and carried himself with a regal air that made Varric want to check there wasn’t something on his nose. Now he understood what all the fuss with the silverware had been about. 

Teddy took in Skyhold like he was taking in a particularly formidable adversary, then saw his siblings approaching him and smiled. It looked at once like he’d forgotten how and like he’d been smiling since he was born, and as he pulled first Theodora, then Tristan into his arms (in, granted, rather formal versions of a hug), Varric suddenly felt like he was intruding on something and politely looked away.

“Damn,” said Bull, who Varric had joined at his place closer to the door. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen either of them this happy.” 

A memory of Empress Celene’s terrace, unrestrained laughter, _I think you just saved my life_. 

“Neither have I,” said Varric. He was used to lying, and besides that was afraid that if he told the truth, Bull would ask him about it, and that was a memory he’d rather keep for himself. 

At the end of the table, Tristan raised his glass to his mouth and narrowly avoided spilling it over his shirt because he couldn’t stop smiling even to drink. He blushed, looking slyly around to see if anyone had noticed. Met eyes with Varric halfway down the table (Varric winked). Blushed more and quickly looked away again, pretending to be enraptured in his soup bowl. 

The evening had been much the same. Varric knew he should leave the guy alone, but he was just so easy to tease. 

However, after Josephine—seated down there next to Teddy—expressed concern at Tristan’s health (“Ser, are you feeling well? You are quite flushed”), Theodora sent Varric such a look of scorn that he had to duck his head like a schoolboy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. 

He wished Hawke was here, but with all the Comtes and Comtesses and magistrates and what have you’s and et ceteras… Well, leave it at adding the Champion of Kirkwall to the mix was a bad idea. Wouldn’t want the big guy getting recognized. 

What he really wanted to do was talk to Teddy, but didn’t think him calling down the table would be smiled on. So he contented himself with listening to Dorian and Vivienne’s bickering and sharing the occasional eye-roll with Leliana. 

“Aren’t they just adorable?” 

Varric’s head snapped up at Dorian’s voice, but was relieved to find he was looking down the table at Cullen and Theodora, who were talking to each other with nervous but overjoyed smiles. Varric would bet money that beneath the table, their fingers had just accidentally brushed each other and they didn’t know what to do about it. 

Dorian sighed romantically. If it weren’t against proper etiquette, he’d have his chin propped on his hand. “If only they weren’t so bloody stupid,” he lamented. “They’d be perfect for each other.” 

Varric laughed. “I didn’t take you for a romantic, Sparkler.” 

“I’ve been known to dabble. However, too much upsets my appetite. Especially this tooth-rotting stuff.” He gestured subtly (if you could call anything about him subtle) with a flick of his fingers towards the pair. 

“Be that as it may, your appetite for ice cream seems quite happy to me,” Vivienne pointed out elegantly, sipping her wine and turning her eyes on Dorian’s second dessert bowl. He casually melted hers. 

For whatever reason, the universe decided that was the perfect moment for Varric to happen to make eye-contact with Tristan as the Trevelyan sophisticatedly closed his lips around an elegant little dessert spoon, and… 

Varric coughed, broke eye-contact, and threw back his wine glass. The people around gave him odd looks. 

“Sorry,” he said. “I’m allergic to silk brocade.” He looked pointedly at both Dorian and Vivienne’s outfits. They loosed identical scoffs, and proceeded to explode. Crisis averted. 

He wouldn’t bet on it in a million years, but Varric thought, when he chanced another look, that there was a tiny smirk on Tristan’s face. 

“Ser Tethras.”

The after-party—well, the mingling-while-heavily-implying-it-was-time-for-everyone-to-leave party—was in full swing, but a voice cut easily over the muted din of wine-drunk conversation. 

Varric rolled his eyes as he turned. “Come on, kid, I thought I told you not to call me—“ He froze. “Lord Trevelyan. Pardon me, I thought you were…” But of course it wasn’t Tristan. Tristan hadn’t had that stony quality to his voice in a long time—at least, not around Varric. 

“Do you often refer to my thirty-one-year-old brother as ‘kid’?” Teddy asked, mildly. 

Varric knew, intrinsically, that despite appearances Tristan wasn’t actually twenty years old (and thank the Maker for that), but hearing it out loud always threw him for a loop. “Ah,” he began, then noticed the spark of humor in Teddy’s otherwise passive expression—which disappeared as soon as Varric thought to point it out.

“I know we haven’t formally met, but my siblings have spoken very highly of you to me,” said Teddy.

“Well, color me surprised,” Varric laughed. 

“Particularly my brother.” 

Varric continued to laugh, despite his throat closing up. _Shit. Fuck. Damn it. He knows. He’s going to kill me. He’s going to—_

“I’m glad we ran into each other. I was hoping to speak with you before I departed, on a matter of some personal importance.”

How hard could it be to survive jumping off a balcony this high? Varric was pretty sure there were some barrels down there to hide in, too…

Instead of pulling a knife out from behind his back, Teddy produced a battered, well-loved first edition of _The Tale of the Champion_. 

Varric stared at it. 

“I know it’s a bit childish, but my wife is a big fan of yours, and she insisted I ask you to autograph her copy. It’s her favorite, you see.” 

“Oh,” said Varric, grinning with enough relief that it nearly brought tears to his eyes. “Why didn’t you say so? Anything for a Trevelyan.” 

_As long as you don’t ask if I know what your brother’s mouth tastes like,_ he thought, producing a pen from his coat, _I’ll sign anything you want._

As they walked along the battlements, Tristan let his fingers drag lightly along the cobblestone walls, like he had to make sure they were each in their place. 

It was late. Late enough that even the Herald’s Rest—where the afterparty had still been roaring when they’d left it—was quiet from this distance, and only had a few stray lights on. 

“—and that’s why you should never place bets on Daisy.”

“I like her,” said Tristan, in a sleepy, happy voice. “I’d like to meet her, some day.”

“Maybe you will,” said Varric, smiling up at the stars. They always reminded him of her; back in Kirkwall, she’d told him all the Dalish names for the constellations, and made sure he knew the stories behind them. “I… miss her,” he admitted. “Hell, I miss all of them. Don’t get me wrong, the Inquisition’s great, I just—”

“They’re your family. I understand.” 

Varric let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “Family,” he repeated. “Yeah. One big patchwork family.” 

“At least you’re so good at making friends,” said Tristan. “I don’t know anyone you’ve met who doesn’t like you.” 

“Ha. Just because someone likes you doesn’t mean they’re your friend, you know. You can get into trouble thinking like that, especially a big hero type like you.”

At the word “hero,” Varric thought he saw one of Tristan’s quick, pleased little smiles before he ducked his head. “I like you,” Tristan said, carefully, eyes fixed on his fingertips skipping over a cobblestone. “What does that make me?” 

Varric stepped in front of him to stop his pace and take his hand from the wall, holding it tightly in his own. “I don’t know what it makes you,” he confessed, “But it makes me scared shitless.” 

“Why?”

Varric just laughed a little, turned Tristan’s hand over in his own. “There’s nothing more terrifying than people like you.”

“People like me?” 

_People I could fall in love with_. Before Varric could say something stupid like that, Tristan hummed. 

“Perhaps your imagination isn’t as good as people believe. After all, there are dragons, big spiders, small spiders, red lyrium monsters, rage demons—“

“You know, when it’s dark like this, I can never tell when you’re joking—“

Tristan kissed him. Gently took Varric’s hands in his, leaned down, and kissed him on the mouth just once, just for a moment, like he just couldn’t stop himself. Then he let go of Varric’s hands and started strolling along the battlements again, glancing over his shoulder to say, deadpan, “Haven’t you heard? Lord Trevelyan _never_ jokes. He’s far too proper to stoop to such things.” 

Well, only a lunatic would let him walk off like that without grabbing his arm and dragging him back close with a kiss to his wrist, his palm, his fingertips. Tristan’s other hand tangled in Varric’s hair, and Tristan sighed as he went to his knees so he could kiss him again—and it wasn’t lost on Varric how silly that probably looked, but why the fuck should they care? It was just them. Just them, threading their fingers together as Varric grinned against his mouth then deepened the kiss. Just them as Tristan gasped and bit down on Varric’s bottom lip, just them sitting together against the walls of Skyhold’s battlements, just them in the cold, not minding the cold, not cold at all. 

*

  
At first glance, it was hard to believe anyone lived in Tristan’s room. The furniture was, while clearly finely made, not particularly homey, and every surface was perfectly clean and devoid of clutter—except the desk. Varric was pretty sure no one’s desk stayed clean, short of the Maker’s. 

It was only when Varric wandered around the room, examining the hand-stitched quilt folded carefully on the couch and the well-loved books on the shelf in the corner and the Grey Warden heraldry on the drapes over the tall windows that he saw Tristan in the place; little pieces of him, subtle but everywhere. 

“You keep a clean ship,” Varric noted, skimming over the book collection.

“I don’t like mess,” said Tristan, simply, somewhere behind him. Someone had been kind enough to come in and light the little fireplace, though the flames had gone down in the hours between now and then. He heard Tristan feed it another log. 

“Not sure you know the difference between _mess_ and _not having anything at all_.”

“I have everything I need.” 

“Have you considered collecting something as a hobby?” Varric picked up a volume called _Native Herbs of the Free Marches Vol. IV_ and thumbed through the pages. His hands shook a little. “I suggest little toy boats. I know a guy who can get you a bunch of little toy boats. You seem like someone who should have a bunch of—”

Tristan plucked the book out of his hands and slammed it on the desk. Varric jerked his head up to see that somehow, while Varric had had his back turned, he’d undressed to his shirtsleeves and trousers, and the laces on the front of his shirt were half-undone to reveal smooth, pale skin.

Varric swallowed. Tristan stared him down with a face like iron.

“Varric,” he said, lowly. “If you don’t stop rummaging through my things and start taking off your clothes this instant, I will lose it.”

All the air left Varric’s lungs in a small, sharp, _“Fuck.”_ Tristan’s face fell in concern, even as it turned bright red.

“I’m sorry, that might have been—we don’t have to do anything if you don’t—“

“No, no, I just was not expecting that kind of thing from you at all and it was—“ Varric breathed a laugh, part relief, part amazement, putting his hands on Tristan’s waist and pushing until his knees hit the bed and he sat down with a gasp, grabbing Varric’s wrists and squeezing when Varric leaned in to kiss just under his ear then murmur, “—to tell you the truth, it was really fucking hot.”

“Yes, that, please tell the truth.” A shiver ran through Tristan and this close Varric could feel it in his own spine. “Maker, Varric, your _voice._ ”

“My voice?” Varric prompted, hiding his wicked grin in another kiss, this one under his jaw. “What about my voice?” 

Tristan didn't say a word, just made a noise in the back of his throat that Varric could probably live off for a year. His hands flew from Varric’s wrists to fist in Varric’s hair and pull him down on top of him, even as he surged up to meet him halfway there in a deep, open-mouthed kiss, and Varric would rather die than complain, but if he had to lie like this for much longer he was going to break his back, which would definitely kill the mood. 

He gently pulled away to scoot up on the bed. Tristan pouted the same way he’d pout at there being beetles in the garden, and Varric laughed out loud, which made Tristan pout even more, enough that the only remedy—in Varric’s eyes—was to trace his thumb over Tristan’s cheekbone and draw him back in for another kiss, this one slower, sweeter. Tristan hummed happily into his mouth. Then gasped and jerked away. 

“Waitwait,” he panicked. Varric drew back immediately, trying not to freak out at the horror on Tristan’s face.

“What? What’s wrong?” 

Tristan scowled and shoved Varric off the bed (Varric raised his hands on instinct), then pointed accusingly, eyes blazing. “No shoes on the bed.”

Varric stared. Burst into laughter. Realized Tristan was dead serious. Laughed harder. Received a pillow to the head. “Alright, alright! No shoes on the bed. Hear you loud and clear, Stormy.” Made a show of solemnly, methodically unlacing his boots and placing them in a neat pile on the floor, even going so far as to fold his socks. 

“There,” he said. “Happy?” 

Now situated comfortably against the pillows at the headboard, Tristan sighed in content and nodded, then held out his hands for Varric to come back. 

“Good,” said Varric, staying right where he was. He shrugged out of his coat and draped it over the arm of the couch. 

“Varric.” He could _hear_ Tristan’s scowl. 

“Yeah?” 

Tristan made a sound of annoyance. Varric casually set about unlacing the rest of his shirt, not missing the way Tristan’s throat moved around a swallow and his blue eyes tracked the motion of Varric’s hands.

“What is it?” 

“I… Varric…” 

“What do you want?” asked Varric in a soothing voice, as his silk shirt dropped from his shoulders to the floor. Blue eyes roamed hungrily across his arms, his shoulders, his chest, then lower, to where Varric’s hands teased the laces of his breeches. 

On the bed, Tristan squirmed, clutching the sheets. _“Varric,”_ he whined. 

“I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what you want, baby.” 

A gasp tore out of Tristan’s lungs and he ducked his head into the pillows, but (Varric was delighted to discover) the blush went all the way down to his chest, maybe even lower. Varric really wanted to find out, but right now it was better to be patient. 

“Sorry, I didn’t catch that.” 

“ _Fuck_ you,” Tristan said, rolling his head up to glare across the room, and Varric would be lying if he said it didn’t go straight to his cock, hearing Tristan curse.

To hell with patience. Varric climbed on the bed and put his hand on Tristan’s knee, thumb rubbing little circles there through his pants as he held back a smile. “Is this what you want, baby?” he asked, not missing the little hitch in Tristan’s breath at the name again. So it _had_ been that. 

“No,” said Tristan, pulling his knee up so his foot was flat on the bed and letting his leg fall open, looking up through half-lidded eyes and that just wasn’t fair, not at all. “Want you to touch me.”

“Where?” Varric let his hand travel lightly up the inside of Tristan’s thigh, skimming disinterestedly over the tent in his pants to trail up his shirt and slide around his waist. “Here?” 

Tristan leaned into the touch but shook his head. Then he sort of flailed his arms in a way that was _not_ sexy but _very_ adorable. Varric helped him lift his shirt off then tossed it across the room—Tristan huffed indignantly, but Varric cut off whatever complaint there was with a kiss, hot and wet and filthy. Tristan draped his arms around his neck and closed his eyes, sighing a little sigh against his mouth when Varric started tracing little shapes against his hips. 

Then, without knowing how, Varric was on his back and Tristan swung a leg over his thighs, rolling their hips together, drawing a punched-out gasp from Varric’s mouth. Note to self, Tristan was way fucking stronger than he looked. 

Also, he saw, opening his eyes to find Tristan smirking down at him, a smug bastard. 

“Proud of yourself, huh?” Varric’s laugh turned into a stifled groan as Tristan moved his hips in small circles, just enough friction to make Varric want to kill him. Slowly. With his tongue. 

“You were teasing me.”

“ _I_ was teasing _you_? What about that little number with the dessert spoon at dinner?”

“Oh,” said Tristan, eyes wide and innocent, even as he spread his palms on Varric’s chest and ran his fingers through the coarse golden hair. “That wasn’t on purpose.” 

“And Andraste’s not the bride of the Maker.”

Tristan retracted his hands and frowned. “Don’t talk about them here, it’s uncouth.”

“You—“ Varric stopped, shook his head, some warm feeling besides arousal pooling in his belly to the point where he had to look away and bite down on a smile. “You’re very strange, you know that?” 

Tristan’s muscles went stiff and he sat back on his heels. “I’m sorry,” he said, his face all folded in on itself, and no, no, no, _shit_. Varric sat up and reached for Tristan’s hand. 

“Hey, that’s not what I meant,” he said. “I meant you’re _you_.” 

“Oh.” Tristan didn’t look any happier. He let Varric take his hand, but his own just lay lifelessly in it. Varric turned Tristan’s chin so he’d meet his eyes. 

“That's not a bad thing,” he said. “I happen to like that you’re you.” 

Tristan hummed, eyes sliding away again. Alright, so he didn’t believe it. Varric would just have to show him. He pulled Tristan into his lap and kissed his chin. “ _I’m sorry_ he says.” A kiss to the throat, the slight scrape of teeth. A little sigh from Tristan, hands resting carefully on Varric’s shoulders. “Like you’re the one who should be apologizing, and not me for insulting you.” Lips to the hollow between his collarbones, trailing down his chest. 

“You didn’t—didn’t insult—“ A sharp breath as Varric’s teeth closed around his nipple, then soothed the pain with his tongue. Tristan’s hands gripped his shoulders like claws. “ _Varric_.” 

Varric ran his hands down Tristan’s back and grabbed his ass, going back up to mouth along Tristan’s jaw then tug at his bottom lip as he hauled him closer up his lap, close enough that when Tristan’s hips jerked involuntarily Varric could feel every part of him against his dick through his pants. Tristan felt it too because he broke their kiss to toss his head back and moan, and Varric wanted that image seared onto his eyelids. “Maker,” he breathed, forgetting their earlier conversation, but Tristan was too busy clambering down the bed so he could have room to tear at the laces of Varric’s pants to notice. 

_Wait. Holy shit_. 

“Varric, please, please,” Tristan babbled. “Let me—please let me—“

_Yes. Yes. Yes!_ It took everything for Varric to hold it together enough to lean back on his elbows and give a lazy smile. “Let you what, baby?” 

Eyes wide, Tristan’s mouth flapped soundlessly, fingers stilled on the laces.

“Remember what I said—you have to tell me what you want or I won’t know.” 

Tristan huffed, the most adorable frustrated pout on his lips. Varric reached down to cradle the back of his head. 

“What is it?” he asked, soft and low. 

“I want—want your— _please_ —“

“You want my cock in your mouth? Is that it, baby?”

_“Uh-huh.”_

Varric bit back a laugh, instead brushed Tristan’s hands out of the way and finished undoing his pants. “Be my guest,” he said, and barely got the words out before Tristan yanked down his pants and let them fall off the edge of the bed and—

Stared. Mouth open. A little drool at the corner. Varric wanted to kiss him again _(and again and again),_ but just as he got the idea to, Tristan snapped out of his stupor and surged forward, took the base of Varric’s dick in his hand and the rest in his mouth. 

Varric’s fingers tightened in Tristan’s hair before he remembered himself and let go, leaving his hand there against the back of Tristan’s head, not pushing, just a warm and solid presence as Tristan curled his tongue around the underside of his cock and found a steady, sliding rhythm that had Varric itching for a pen and paper to take notes for his next novel. Shit, no, that’s not what he should be thinking about. He should be thinking about Tristan’s hooded eyes as he bobbed his head on his dick; about Tristan’s hand pumping what his mouth couldn’t reach; about the slick wet sounds, unavoidably loud in the quiet of such a late hour; about the spit pooling on the sheets beneath them as it dribbled down Tristan’s chin. 

“You’re— _fuck—_ “ Varric laughed around a groan at a particularly clever swipe of Tristan’s tongue. “I wish you could see yourself, baby, you’re gorgeous.” With no pen, he was forced to ramble aloud. “You’re always gorgeous, but right now, like this—did you know that blush of yours goes all the way down your chest?” Even as he said it, Tristan’s blush deepened. “I don’t think there’s anything in the world prettier than that, except maybe your mouth right now. I could watch you suck my cock forever.”

Tristan’s eyes fluttered shut and he moaned, and Varric felt it like he felt heaven. He dragged his fingers through Tristan’s hair, fighting not to close his eyes. “The sounds you make,” he said. “Maker above, you’re killing me, baby.” 

The mattress was shifting beneath them and Varric realized it was because Tristan had shoved a hand down his pants to stroke himself off, and Varric couldn’t believe he was so worked up just from having his mouth on him. “You really like this, don’t you?” 

He shouldn’t have asked. Tristan pulled off for air with a wet _pop_ and rested his head against Varric’s hip, panting against his skin. “I—“ he breathed. “You, your voice, your _voice_ —“ He interrupted himself by mouthing along the underside of Varric’s cock, a line of kisses from base to tip before taking him back into his mouth in one too-quick motion that had him gagging when it hit the back of his throat. Varric gripped his hair and pulled him off. 

“As much as I appreciate the enthusiasm, I don’t want you hurting yourself,” he said, even as Tristan whined over him and fought against his grip. Varric shushed him gently, and stroked back the hair that clung to his forehead with sweat. “Come up here, I have a better idea.” He pulled Tristan into his arms, reached down to palm him through his trousers—wait a second, “Why the hell are you still wearing these?” 

“Hm?” Tristan’s eyes were glazed over with want, his hands clutching Varric’s chest like it was the only thing tying him to reality. 

“Your pants, dork. Off with them.” 

Tristan blinked fast and hurried to shimmy out of his pants. Varric drank in the sight of his pretty pink cock curving up and dripping against his belly; his long, shapely legs, the smooth skin of his thighs too enticing not to run a hand along. Tristan watched, fascinated, tentatively placed his hand over Varric’s. Varric stilled, looked up.

“You want me to stop?” 

“No,” Tristan said, “I was just—“ He traced a finger along the back of Varric’s knuckles, pupils blown wide. “Your hands are. Big.” 

Varric looked down for comparison. His palms were broader than Tristan’s, his fingers thicker, but overall, he didn’t think they were much bigger. He huffed a laugh. “And you’ve got some interesting kinks, Stormy.” 

Tristan shot him a look, though he couldn’t hide his blush—Maker, it was _everywhere_. “I don’t have _kinks_.” 

“What’s that you were saying about my voice?” Varric asked, leaning in to speak against the shell of his ear. “I believe it was something like—“ He adopted a mockery of Tristan’s voice, too-high and whiny, “Oh, _ohh_ , _Vaaarric._ ” 

“I don’t—sound like that,” Tristan huffed, biting his lip. 

“You’re right, you’re right.” Varric apologized by kissing the sensitive skin behind his ear. “You’re much more dignified. Way sexier.” 

“That’s ri— _iiiiiiiiigh_.” Tristan’s mouth fell slack as Varric’s hand wrapped around his cock, thumb spreading precum around the head and using it as slick to pump it once, twice, _slowly_. Tristan curled an arm around Varric’s back and threaded his fingers into the hair at his neck, where most of it had fallen out of his ponytail (there were way more important things to worry about right now). 

“What’s right, sweetheart?” 

“Keep doing that, please.” 

No more teasing. Varric grabbed Tristan’s waist and pulled him into his lap, where Tristan wriggled to get comfortable or, Varric suspected, to drive him crazy. 

Varric spat into his palm, and Tristan wrinkled his nose. Varric laughed. “Seriously? You just had my dick in your mouth and _that’s_ what offends your noble sensibilities?” 

“I just think—“ 

But Varric never found out what he thought, because any extraneous sound rushed from Tristan’s lungs in a keen when Varric wrapped his hand around them both and started stroking them off together. Tristan’s hands scrabbled at his shoulders, clawing and pulling and gripping. 

“Varric, _Varric_.” 

“That’s it, baby, you’re good,” said Varric, using his free hand on Tristan’s hip to hold him steady, keep him grounded. “You’re so good, so good for me. Maker, look at you.” Tristan’s hand joined Varric’s, and together they found a steady rhythm that had Tristan practically singing and Varric panting into the crook of his neck, eyes squeezed closed. _“Fuck.”_

Tristan held Varric’s head against him, fucking his hips into their joined fists. “Keep talking,” he pleaded. That was a new one. Usually people had to tell Varric to shut up.

He trailed sloppy kisses along Tristan’s collar. “Can’t believe you let me go so long without doing this. Fuck, there’s still so much I want to do to you, I wish we could—but I’m not gonna last much longer, not with you making sounds like that.” 

On cue, a little moan punched its way out of Tristan’s throat, and Varric groaned low and filthy. “ _Just_ like that, Maker above, you’re perfect, you know that? So perfect, such a good boy—“

Tristan’s mouth opened on a soundless scream and he came over Varric’s fist, and Varric was so shocked that it only took a handful more strokes to bring him over the edge with him. 

Gently, as they panted to catch their breath in the quiet room, Varric lay Tristan back on the bed, kissing over his chest, petting his sides, swiping his tongue once through the pool of come on his belly—Tristan made a noise of disgust even though his face looked horribly pleased and his spent dick gave a feeble twitch of interest. 

Varric slid off the bed to find something to clean them off with, and Tristan was so relaxed that he didn’t even notice it was his shirt Varric was using to wipe him off. 

For just a moment, Varric let himself sit back at the end of the bed and look at Tristan. He was so peaceful, his eyes closed with his lashes brushing his cheeks, his hair wild against the pillows, his chest rising and falling with increasing steadiness, the pink flush of his skin slowly fading. Varric wanted to kiss every inch of him forever.

He also wanted to sleep forever. That part of him won out instantly.

He fell on his back beside Tristan, sliding one arm behind his head and the other around Tristan’s shoulders, and sighed. 

“Hey, would you look at that,” he said. Tristan, curled into his side, grunted, eyes resolutely shut. In fact, Varric thought he fell asleep right there, before he could see Varric nod toward the dawn light coming through the stained glass windows and whisper, “Sun’s coming up.” 

Despite his exhaustion, he spent longer than he’d like to admit like that, running his fingers through Tristan’s hair and watching how the light played across his face in soft, happy colors. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you everyone leaving kudos/comments, they really touch my heart (and, it appears, drive me to update earlier than i had scheduled!). remember, you can always comment anonymously by logging out + leaving a pseudonym for your comment if you're for some reason embarrassed (not that you should ever be! you're lovely and badass n i love hearing from y'all)
> 
> next chapter out soon! :*


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if y'all thought the last chapter was long...

When it started, Varric didn’t think much of it. 

“Ah, Varric.” Josephine approached with clipboard in arm. At this point, Varric wouldn’t be surprised if she’d had it surgically attached. For efficiency purposes. "I was hoping to find you here.” 

“What can I say? I’m a creature of habit,” said Varric with an easy smile, finishing up his latest sentence before setting aside his pen and looking up at her from his place at the little table by the fireplace in the great hall. “How can I help you, Ruffles?” 

“Do you know where Tristan is?” 

Varric blinked. “Last I saw, he was in the tower asking Solas about something, but that was a few hours a—“

“Thank you!” she said, heels already clicking on the floor as she opened the door beside him. Varric watched her go, then shrugged and went back to his manuscript.

The second time, Varric was too drunk to pay it much scrutiny until later. The tavern was crowded and boisterous, and Bull’s voice called out above the rest. “Varric! Bring that sexy ass chest hair over here,” he said, thumping a hand on his table. Varric laughed, slipping easily in among the Chargers. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever been so charmed to be objectified.” 

“Glad you could be here to experience it. Where’s the little prince?” 

Varric finished a pull of his drink before responding. “War table,” he said. “What else? You know as well as I do the powers that be have practically lived there the last week.” 

“Duty calls, I guess. Damn. Would have liked to have seen him.”

The words “Yeah, me too,” came out of Varric’s mouth easily and before he could stop them, but after, he kept thinking back over that exchange throughout the night, a small frown creasing his forehead. 

The third time he could overlook it—after all, Cole more often than not was just repeating Varric’s thoughts out loud, and the rest of the time assumed Varric knew everything about anything. The fifth time he could forgive, because he could (unfortunately) always forgive Hawke. The eighth time, he started to get annoyed.

By the tenth time, he was over it. 

It was his turn to check in on the infirmary. Theodora had gotten some nasty burns after a frankly suicidal run-in with a dragon, and everyone was worried sick. Cullen hadn’t left her side once, and apparently had even slept there. 

“Well, I’ll be damned.” Varric leaned on the doorframe, arms crossed with a little grin. “If you two were a foot closer, you’d be spooning.”

Theodora mumbled unintelligibly and rolled over, eyes still closed. Her burns had almost completely healed—she looked a hell of a lot better than she had the last time Varric had seen her. Those Trevelyans were a stubborn bunch. 

“Varric,” said Cullen. He, on the other hand, looked terrible. Poor guy. “Have you seen Tristan?” 

Varric felt his face lose all expression and his whole body go stiff, and he wanted to shout _No! Fuck off! Why should I know more than anyone else?_ But he didn’t. He said, politely as he could, “Yeah, he was at breakfast,” unable to keep the bite out of the added, _“Why?”_

Cullen looked taken aback, and Varric grimaced, wanting to apologize.

“I’m up!”

Varric flinched, just remembering Theodora was there. He scrubbed a hand over his eyes. “Andraste’s ass, you scared me,” he said. Though it wasn’t quite the truth, it was close enough. 

“I’m a terrifying thing to behold, I know,” she said, spreading her hands, and Varric laughed, the thing lodged in his ribs shaken loose, at least for now.

“That you are, Inquisitor,” he said, turning to go. “Glad to see you’re actually awake. I’ll alert the masses.”

When he got to the Great Hall, he found Leliana and Tristan waiting at his usual spot by the fire, and though there were bags under Tristan’s eyes from staying up all night worrying and his mouth was a permanent line, when he saw Varric approaching, Tristan’s eyes got a little warmer, and Varric let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. 

“How is she?” Tristan asked, standing abruptly.

“Well enough to make jokes,” Varric shrugged. A million things started spinning inside Tristan's head, and Varric stilled them with a brief hand on his shoulder, hyperaware of Leliana's eyes on them. “She’s fine, Stormy. Told you she would be.” 

Tristan closed his eyes, breathed in, opened them. “Good. That’s… that’s good. I should. Should I go see—?“

“If you want to, but she’s in good hands, and I think she still needs rest.”

“She always needs rest,” Tristan murmured, then shook his head and straightened his shoulders. “I should at least alert the others. They’ll want to know how she’s doing.”

“I’ll see to that,” Leliana cut in. “Silly for you to wander around trying to find everyone.”

With nothing left to do, Tristan looked between them, lost. He hadn’t slept much the night before, too busy pacing his room and flicking aimlessly and unsatisfied through the pages of just about every book he owned. Even when he’d finally been convinced to lay down, his sleep had been a fitful one. The restlessness was still there, evident in his eyes, and in his hands, which fidgeted with the hem of his coat.

“She will be alright, Tristan,” said Leliana, before Varric could decide whether he was brave enough to take Tristan’s hands in his and hold them still. “It seems she is, already. You need to relax. Go someplace calm.” She reached out and squeezed his arm, and didn’t so much give Varric a pointed look as she did let her eyes glide over him in suggestion before excusing herself to find her people. 

When Varric looked, Tristan was staring at him, but only for a second before he turned away, red. Varric wanted to smooth the lines from his face, but instead he smiled faintly and suggested, “Someplace calm?”

“What? Oh—oh, um. Yes.” A deep breath filled Tristan’s lungs, and he whispered, “Thank you,” then walked with Varric side-by-side to the garden, each careful that their arms only brushed occasionally. 

There were too many people in the garden. Well, that wasn’t true. There were only a handful, and all of them were off to one side listening to Mother Giselle, but still, the thought of their eyes on them made Varric’s palms sweat. But Tristan was calmer, walking among the planters and cupping his palms around a leaf or a bud or a flower here and there, the tension in his body slowly draining. 

_Don’t fuck this up. Don’t say anything don’t—_ “Tristan, can I talk to you about something?” 

Tristan stiffened and straightened up, tilting his head at Varric with a little frown. “Of course.” 

_Shit._ Varric looked around, partly to see if anyone was eavesdropping but partly to look for an exit. “I was just wondering if you had. You know.” 

Tristan blinked. “Varric,” he deadpanned. “If you want something, you have to tell me what it is, or I won’t know.” 

Laughter eased the worry that had been eating Varric alive, and he shook his head at himself. Just when he thought he had Tristan pinned down, he kept surprising him. 

“I just wanted to know if you’d told anyone about us.” 

“No,” said Tristan. “I don’t see how that would be anyone’s business.” 

“Right.” Relief swept in, enough to make Varric a little dizzy. “Right. It’s just people keep—ah, I don’t know, forget about it. Doesn’t matter, anyway, since you haven’t brought it up and I haven’t, either, so—“

“People keep what?” 

Varric frowned as a prickly sensation crawled up his arms. “For whatever reason, there’s this universally assumed idea that I’m supposed to always know where you are and how you’re doing, like we aren’t all in the same damn castle, and I can’t imagine why they’d think I knew better than anyone else, other than they think we’re…” What? We’re what, Varric? Go ahead, make more of an ass of yourself than you already have, why don’t you—might be able to break the record before lunch time!

“And them thinking that about us, that bothers you.” 

Varric had liked to think he’d gotten a handle on reading Tristan, but evidently not. The man was expressionless.

“Well, no," said Varric, swallowing a lump in his throat and shifting his eyes. “Well.” He shouldn’t have said anything. Shouldn’t even feel like this, shouldn’t _be_ like this. Unable to speak plainly about his feelings, even to himself, even to people he wanted to know. 

“If I had said something about us,” said Tristan, slowly, methodically, “What would it have been?” 

“What?” 

Tristan looked around the garden, subtly enough that no one would know he was staking the place out unless they’d seen that look before. Varric had seen it plenty of times, just before a lot of bad people died quickly. 

Finding themselves still private, Tristan asked, “What am I to you, Varric?” 

_Not Bianca_. 

The thought came out of nowhere, like a poison-tipped arrow shot from a rooftop. But Varric didn’t really think that. That wasn’t fair, that wasn’t right, and that wasn’t _true_. 

Was it? 

“I didn’t mean to make you upset,” said Tristan.

“I’m not upset, I just—“ 

“Don’t know.”

“Don’t know how to explain it to you.”

_“You_ don’t know how to describe something.” 

“I know, I know, I’m sorry—“

“You don’t need to _apologize_ , just—“ Tristan breathed in, and when he breathed out he was in control. “Just tell me if you want to be with me, and don’t lie about it. It’s fine if you don’t, I understand and I would never hold it against you.” 

“I do!” Varric was Not in control. He was panicking, reaching for Tristan’s hand just for something to hold on to. “I do. I’m just afraid you don’t know what you’re getting yourself into. I know on the outside I seem perfect in every way—“ Tristan scoffed fondly, putting his other hand over Varric’s. Varric grinned, rueful. “—but I… I am fucked up. I’m bad at this, and on top of it I’m way out of practice, and on top of that we’ve got all this shit going on around us, and—“

“And, in the middle of all that shit, we’ve got each other. Whatever that might mean.” 

Varric would ask what he’d done to deserve this if he didn’t know, deep down, that he didn’t deserve it.

“You’ll have to be patient with me.” 

“I know.” 

“And tell me if I ever fuck up. Even a little.”

“I will, as long as you do the same.”

Varric stared at their hands, then abruptly dropped them and looked around, heart pounding _What if someone saw what are they thinking what if—_

But no one was looking. No one but Tristan, whose head was tipped just-so, eyes shining. “Patience,” he said, knowingly.

“Shit, I’m sorry, that was—asshole-y.“

“It’s alright.” Tristan began walking again along the trail through the gardens, not looking behind, just trusting Varric would follow (he did). “I rather prefer it myself, as well. I’m not sure I want anyone to know, yet, either.” 

“I’ve got some bad news, Stormy. I think they already know.” 

“That doesn’t mean we have to tell them. If we did, what would the people in the Rest have to gossip about?” 

“I’ve heard a rumor or two about your sister and a certain ex-templar.” 

Tristan made a face and waved off the words. “Old news. Really, Varric, I expected better from you. Bull told me something he suspects about Blackwall that I think you’ll find _very_ interesting.”

“Is that so?” 

With as close to a coy smile as Tristan was capable of making in the light of day, he launched into a vaguely-worded but highly informative story, and Varric, for once, allowed himself to be told instead of being the teller. 

They’d be just fine, he told himself. Just fine. 

_Dear Bianca,_

_Tomorrow, the Inquisition sets out for Adamant Fortress. So if you don’t hear for me for another, oh, six months, you’re allowed to collect all outstanding debts in my name. For the biggest payout, I’d go to Fenris first. Then, if you survive that, try Dorian Pavus._

_As small a chance as there is, in case something does happen to me at Adamant, there’s something I need to tell you. Well, more accurately, something I need to write down. I won’t name any names, but I think I’m in love with someone. Someone that isn’t you. And that scares me more than anything I’ve ever seen, including Merrill with a hangover. But it also feels good. Right. Like I’ve always been in love._

_I’m no good at it. I never was. People like me, we weren’t made to be in love, I don’t think, only to write about it. It hurts. The only time it doesn’t hurt is when he’s near me._

_The sex is pretty good, too._

_I guess the reason I’m telling you all this is so I don’t feel so damn guilty all the time, but honestly, writing all this down hasn’t helped much. I just know if there’s anyone who’ll get it, it’s you. And if you don’t, at least you’ll harass me about it properly._

_Anyway, to save myself from writing any more bullshit, I’ll pretend I have to go pack for the ride out west. Take care of yourself._

_Yours,_

_V_

“Hey, Varric. Have you heard the one about the Grey Wardens who run into a tavern?” 

“Pretty sure you’ve got the formatting of this one a little wrong, buddy,” said Varric, smiling all the same. He and Hawke’s horses plodded side-by-side, taking up the rear while the rest of the inner circle rode ahead with the Inquisitor. Only Tristan fell in line with them, listening in with a small, thoughtful frown. Actually, Varric wouldn’t be surprised if he wasn’t listening at all, just lost in his own thoughts. 

“They’d heard the bartender _Calling_ last round!” Hawke grinned broadly enough that Varric was afraid he’d hurt himself before the battle even started. After a moment, the grin fell. “Come on, at least pity laugh.” 

“Pity is too weak of a word for what I feel right now.” Varric shook his head sadly. "That may have been your worst yet, Hawke. Hell, I’d say that was even worse than Cole’s jokes.”

“Tristan thought it was funny.” 

They looked over as the sound of his name snapped Tristan out of his own head. “Sorry, what?”

Varric and Hawke exchanged looks, and Hawke rode around so he was on Tristan’s other side, Tristan sandwiched between them.

“Hey,” said Hawke, gently. “Try to relax. It’s only a giant siege.” 

Tristan reached to his neck, unable to dislodge the pendant from under his armor but managing to brush his fingers against the chain. “I just wish Theodora would let me go with her.” 

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of her. Besides, if you were with us, who’d keep an eye on Varric?” 

“Oh, Bianca’s always got my back,” said Varric, patting the crossbow slung across his shoulders. Tristan didn’t smile at their repartee like usual, that crease still deep between his brows. Varric reached out to nudge his arm. “Besides, Stormy, we can’t have all our heroes in one place. Just bad storytelling.”

Tristan closed his eyes and leaned into Varric’s touch, and Varric, with his breath caught in his throat and his skin too tight, squeezed his arm. The three rode in silence for a moment, Varric all too aware of Hawke’s eyes on them. 

“Alright, go ahead and say I told you so, you big ass,” Varric sighed at last, returning his hand to the bridle. 

“I wasn’t thinking that at all,” said Hawke. The jovial tone he’d maintained throughout the rest of the conversation was gone, replaced by a soft fondness that later, looking back, made Varric think he’d known what would happen even then. “I’m just glad to see you happy.” 

With that, he flicked his reins. “See you after the big fight, boys!” he called over his shoulder, and rode ahead to speak with Theodora and the Warden. Archibald? Altair? 

“Make sure you keep score!” Varric yelled after him. “Not that it’ll matter.”

“I always do!” said Hawke with a good-hearted middle finger, and Varric grinned and shook his head, and a smile twitched at the corner of Tristan’s mouth, and that was it. 

That was the last time Varric ever saw Hawke. 

Everything immediately following Adamant happened at once in slow-motion and sped up so fast Varric felt like he was always out of breath trying to catch up to the present.

There was the aftermath of the battle ( _“Where’s Hawke?”_ That look on Theodora’s face, how come he remembered that more than anything else?), and then the ride home (alone, completely alone, ahead of everyone else, he couldn’t… he just couldn’t), and now standing in the great hall while everyone settled back in at home after a long, hard-won battle. There were smiles, from most, and there should be. They’d won. Varric tried to return greetings best he could, to thank those in the know for their _Sorry for your losses_ and their _If you need anythings_. 

Theodora approached later in the evening, and the look in her eyes threw Varric into a panic that manifested, as most of his panics did, in a story. A story about Hawke. Those were his best ones, after all. At the end, he noticed something on his face, touched his eye in fright and stared in horror at the tears on his fingers. He swallowed. 

“Thanks, T,” he said, wavering, hating it. “Always wanted to tell that one.”

She hugged him. He closed his eyes and hugged her back, and didn’t blame her anymore. It wasn’t her fault. Hell, Hawke would’ve never had it any other way. Always had to be the center of attention. 

Theodora left him alone before he could say any of that. He turned to leave, too. He had a lot of letters to write. Shit, _Fenris_ —Varric put up a hand on the doorframe to steady himself, dizzy, eyes swimming, burning. 

“Varric.” 

Shit. Varric turned around. Tristan looked small, exhausted, alone. Varric hadn’t seen him since Adamant, had left him there without so much as a goodbye.

They looked at each other, grief a weight tied between them by their necks.

“I’m so sorry,” Tristan croaked. 

“Me, too.” 

“Is—is there anything you need?” 

Varric ran his thumb along the woodgrain of the doorframe his hand still rested on. “I’m just going to need some time,” he said, feeling like someone else was saying it for him. “Time alone.” 

Tristan nodded, once, looked like he might say something else, then left.

It was no quieter than usual in Varric’s room. There was a fire going, and the ink was out at his desk like he always left it before he went off somewhere, because he knew that as soon as he got back, he’d want to write. 

Usually, he liked writing. 

He put the waiting manuscript in a drawer and took out a sheaf of spare paper, sat down, picked up his pen, and, hand hovering above the page, stared at his desk. 

He stood up and went to the mantle. 

_The Tale of the Champion_. A dedication on the first page: _To Malcolm, Bethany, Carver, and Leandra._ Varric propped the book in one arm to scrawl another name, then took the book to his desk and flipped through to the back. 

The last few pages, after and below _The End_ , were blank, because of printing bullshit yadayada—his publisher had told him why ages ago, but now Varric could answer that himself. 

He dipped his pen in ink. 

_Epilogue._

_The Champion did not have to die, except in the way that all heroes must die at some point, in their own right: protecting something greater than themselves._

_There’s a reason it took this long. You have to wake up awful early to find something greater than Hawke._

_I’ve never known and don’t think I ever will know a greater person, a greater brother, a greater leader, or a greater friend. Ask anyone who knew him—maybe not anyone who knew_ _of_ _him, but anyone who met him would tell you that when the Maker gave little baby Hawke a heart, He put it in exactly the right place, and nothing ever managed to knock it loose. Even, and often especially, in the face of death, Hawke always did what was best for not himself, but for the people he cared about, and what makes that so extraordinary was that Hawke cared about everyone in the whole damn world._

_I know there are many who won’t bring themselves to honor the loss of Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall, not after everything that happened, and I won’t ask that of anyone. All I’ll ask is that you honor Hawke, the man. The man who’d drop everything to help a friend, who would leave a pan of milk out for the alleycats every night, who told some of the worst jokes I’ve ever had the joy of not laughing at, and who did so many other small,_ _good_ _things that even I couldn’t possibly name them all._

_I hope, wherever he is, he gets some damn rest._

_Goodbye, old friend._

_\- Varric Tethras_

  
When it was finished, Varric sealed it inside an envelope addressed to his publisher and put it carefully in the top drawer of his desk, hoping one day he’d forget what it was and just send it without asking himself questions. Unlikely, but the hope was there. Then he put his head on his desk, closed his eyes, and sighed.

A gentle knock on the door. Varric had never wanted to open anything less, but he forced himself to get up, scrub a hand over his face, prepare himself to put on a polite smile and say a polite _go away_ as he opened the door—

No one was there. He looked around. It was late, the hall was deserted. Annoyed, Varric started to close the door, then noticed that someone had laid a tray of food on the floor in front of it. 

Right. He hadn’t been at dinner. He _was_ hungry. 

Varric picked up the tray, gave the hall one last look-around (even though he knew who’d left it, knew better than anything, and maybe that’s why he looked), and went back inside his room. 

Life went on, in a big way. It seemed like every day, there was a new connection to be made, another diplomat to be swayed or another area to investigate. For the first time, the general consensus was not just _we might win,_ but that it might happen soon.

Of course, that meant everyone was running around with their head cut off. With Theodora and Tristan both going off in opposite directions at a day’s notice, taking half of Skyhold with them, it was getting harder and harder to find good company. Especially hard, since Theodora rarely asked him along at the best of times, and Tristan—

Well, it was pretty clear why Tristan wasn’t inviting him along.

With no company to find, Varric made his own. Which meant he wrote, constantly and furiously. When he woke up, he wrote. Before he slept, he wrote. When he was too sad to leave his room, when he was so angry he wanted to kill someone, when he was happy—and eventually, yes, he was, he could hardly believe it, either—he wrote. 

“Varric,” Leliana greeted from her perch in the roost, sifting through a stack of letters a mile high. Even she seemed surprised to see him. Well, as surprised as Leliana could ever be. “I was starting to think you’d forgotten where we send the letters from.”

Varric smiled and set a large, rectangular, neatly wrapped package on her desk. “Decided to give the messengers a break,” he said. “Besides.” He let his hand fall on the package. “This one’s important.” 

“Well, that’s a relief. I would hate to have someone send unimportant mail.” Leliana tipped her head so she could read the address—just a confirmation, probably, for what she could already tell from the package’s size and shape. “You’ve finished it, then?” 

“A book's never _really_ finished,” Varric said. “But I’ve decided I’ve done all I could with this one. Off to the editor.”

“There are some letters for you. I was going to have someone bring them to you, but since you’re here—“ Leliana turned and shuffled around a table beside her for a moment before producing two envelopes and handing them over. 

Varric looked through them. One was from Bianca (unsurprising—he owed her a “Don’t worry, I’m alive!” missive, but… Yeah, he’d been holding off on that), and the other.

“Trevelyan?” he said, tapping the blue wax seal with a little frown. “They’ve got mail in the—hell, where are they now? Emerald Graves?” 

“Tristan is in Val Royeaux negotiating with merchants, and Theodora has gone to the Emprise du Lion to—“

“Freeze her ass off, got it.” 

Leliana smiled, two parts humor, one part condescension. Varric missed talking to her. Or, you know. To anyone. He should go out of his room more often. Maybe now that the book was done… “Laugh as you like, but if freezing our asses off is what it takes to beat Corypheus, I’ll gladly accept it.” 

“You got me there, Nightingale.” 

“Anyway, that letter actually came from an Ostwick emissary.” 

Varric blinked at her, then at the blue-sealed letter in his hand. “Ostwick? What could _those_ Trevelyans want with me?” 

“Why don’t you open the letter and find out?” Leliana asked, even as one of her people cleared the stairs and offered her a stack of reports. “Thank you,” she said, and then to Varric, “Varric, it was good seeing you.” 

Varric raised a hand and saw himself out, fumbling with the seal on his way down the stairs. 

_Dear Ser Tethras,_

_Thank you for indulging me in autographing my copy of your book. It was very kind of you, and I would be lying if I were to say I did not spend an inordinate amount of time staring at your handwriting._

_My husband spoke highly of his meeting you at Skyhold, and even higher of the great strides the Inquisition has made in securing the safety of Thedas and her people. Please accept my sincere gratitude for the good work you and your companions have done._

_Blessings of Andraste upon you,_

_Lady Lucienne Hartnell-Trevelyan_

_P.S. Give mine and Lord Treveylan’s love to my brother- and sister-in-law._

A bewildered smile grew on Varric’s mouth as he reached the library floor, turning the dainty notecard in his hand—he was so caught up trying to figure out what to make of such a charming piece of mail that he didn’t notice Cassandra until he ran into her. 

“Ugh, _Varric,”_ she said, crossing her arms and scowling down at him. He raised his hands in surrender.

“Sorry, Seeker. Your divinity must have blinded me.” 

Her eyes flashed so red Varric almost checked his clothes for flames. _“Who told you about that?”_ she demanded. 

“Uh,” he said. “About what?” 

A war took place in real-time on Cassandra’s face, with Varric caught in the crossfire, her eyes boring holes into him. Eventually, she found something—or maybe the absence of something—that allowed her to relax her shoulders. “Never mind,” she said. “Anyway, I was not upset at you for running into me, it was that I’ve been trying to get your attention since you came down the stairs.” 

“Oh,” said Varric. “I was reading.” 

She blinked. It could’ve melted the Frostbacks. Varric sighed, realizing he was going to be here a while. 

“What can I do for you, Seeker? I’m a very busy man, you know. People to be, places to see.” 

“Varric, I know for a fact you haven’t been out of your room for weeks.” 

“Wow, I see you’ve been working on your hyperbole! Good work—and a noble undertaking.” 

“You—“ Cassandra turned red. “Do you _ever_ take _anything_ seriously?” 

“Oh, Maker, no, don’t you worry about that." 

“I worry more about you in general.” 

“You worry about me?” he teased, but as he said it, his gloating smile fell.

She had That expression. The one people got when they said shit like, “We all worry about you,” and meant it.

It took a few tries to answer around the lump in his throat. “I’m fine, Seeker,” he managed, at last. “Though I appreciate the concern. It’s not been…” He laughed, nervous, rubbed the back of his neck. “Easy.”

“I should say not, especially after insisting you remain alone for weeks on end despite there being plenty of people around who care about you and wish to be there for—“ She stopped, closed her eyes, loosed a sharp breath through her nose. “My apologies. I’ve spoken out of turn.”

Varric’s attempt at a smile was more like a grimace. 

“It’s good, at least, to see you’ve returned to the realm of daylight.” 

“Yeah, it’s nice,” he managed. Alright, witty, slightly passive-aggressive repartee. He could do that. “Actually, I was just dropping off something for Leliana to send to my editor.” 

Cassandra’s eyes went comically wide. Varric wished he could laugh without fear of death. “You—have you finished—?” 

“What do you think I’ve been doing all this time, just sitting around?” 

_“What happens to him?”_

And this. This, these kind of outbursts, were why Varric kept himself awake at night staining his fingers with ink. (Those, and the terrible thought of what he’d do with all the thoughts in his head if he didn’t write). 

Varric grinned, his first real grin—albeit a little evil—in ages. “How am I supposed to know?” 

“You _wrote_ it!” 

Varric continued to grin. Cassandra scoffed. “Fine, dwarf, keep your secrets. I’ll just have to convince them out of Tristan upon his return.” 

Alright, the name _Tristan_ said out loud, so flippantly and unexpectedly, was like being slapped with a handful of snow. Varric stared ahead, unfocused, heart trying to peel itself like an apple. Cassandra’s eyebrows shot up.

“Varric? Are you… alright?” 

“Yeah,” Varric blurted. He pinched the bridge of his nose, breathed deeply. “Yeah, I’m just fine, Seeker. I was just—just thinking, um. You’re not going to find any spoilers from him, seeing as we haven’t talked in…” He trailed off, not knowing how long it had been himself. A month? Had it really been a month? He felt like he was on fire, but not real fire, mage fire, the _cold_ kind. 

“Oh,” said Cassandra, stiffly. “I’m. Sorry to hear that.” 

Varric shrugged, wishing for escape. And a bottle of something. 

“Would you—would you like to talk about it?” 

“No.” Certainly not with Cassandra, as much as her efforts came from the right place. He couldn’t shake the feeling that despite the rocky yet existent common ground they’d found to stand their “friendship” on, Cassandra would always take Tristan’s side. Nothing wrong with that, but also not the person you necessarily want to spill your guts to. 

Cassandra made a considering expression, made a decision, and took a deep breath. Oh, boy. “Perhaps you _should_ talk about it.” 

“Perhaps,” said Varric, evenly, “I should go back to my room, now,” and left, and the part about the conversation that he hated most was she didn’t go after him. There was no reason for her to, and he didn’t _want_ her to, but Hawke would have. 

While it could get boring with most of the inner circle off on missions, Varric might argue that it was the perfect time for him to reintegrate himself in society. He started by going to dinner—something he would’ve had to work up to for ages, were all the usual suspects around. But with just four or five of them there at a time, it was fine. Nice, even.

Of course, there was always shit for him to do. Just because he wasn’t out traipsing the wilderness didn’t mean he didn’t fall into bed exhausted every night, after days spent meeting with underground contacts, negotiating trade deals with some of Josephine’s less sophisticated connections, playing cards with the soldiers to get a feel for morale and report back to Cullen and Leliana, offering his hand at helping Leliana look over and respond to the ever-growing pile of field reports and anonymous tips. 

Varric would much rather be helping than sitting around, but he couldn’t help the pang of disappointment every time he saw another Inquisition party head out without him (he watched, of course, from the safety of a window or parapet, making sure that on the rare occasions one or both of the Trevelyans were at Skyhold he gave them a wide berth. Why? Because he was a coward, obviously). 

But, he knew, even if an invitation was extended to him, he’d have to decline. There was still a list of names he hadn’t quite crossed out yet, a list of people who hadn’t received letters.

If the selfish part of Varric’s heart had its way, those letters would never get written, which is why he forced himself to sit down once a week and get the damn thing over with—just one a week, that he could do. The first was the hardest. How do you open a letter like that? _Hello, how have you been? Bad news, Hawke’s gone._ And moreover, who was he supposed to tell first? 

Well, he thought, looking guiltily at the list of names on his desk and letting his eyes slide past a certain elf’s, he who he was _supposed_ to tell first, but he couldn’t. Not yet. Holding back the news wouldn’t help—would more likely hurt—but… not yet. 

_Dear Anders,_

_I have no reliable way of knowing when or if you’ll get this, since I’m only half-sure where you are, and completely certain that you’re not going to respond, which is fine. I don’t expect you to, and to be honest I don’t much want you to._

_Part of me imagines you already know why I’m writing, and I don’t want to drag it out any more than I want the news to hurt, but I’ve got to say it somehow, so._

_Hawke is gone. He died a hero. A stupid hero, but a hero anyway, sacrificing himself for something bigger than any of us, and to a lesser degree (though probably not for him), for a handful of damn good people._

_You never told anyone, but I know you loved him. Maybe more than any of us. I’m sorry. That’s all I can say. I’m truly sorry._

_Varric_

After that, they each got easier—most were, more or less, the same letter. Barely two weeks after sending Aveline’s, Varric got flowers in the mail (not real ones, just a handful of metal blooms made from finely welded brass). Isabela sent a half-empty bottle of rum (“The rest I poured out for Hawke”). Sebastian’s response was a handwritten verse from the Chant, a copy of which Varric snuck into Theodora’s room while she was gone because it felt like something that might help her more than him. He was still waiting on a reply from Merrill. 

He hadn’t written Fenris, yet. He knew the longer he put it off, the worse it would be, but. 

He just hadn’t, yet, alright? 

“Coming to dinner, Varric?” Iron Bull fell into step beside Varric. He was good at that, despite being about three times his size. Probably a spy thing. No, definitely a spy thing. Regardless, Varric liked that about him. 

“I was planning on it.”

Bull’s chest rumbled with mild interest. “Guess you hadn’t heard Thea got back a few hours ago.” 

Varric’s step faltered with his heart, but only momentarily. “Ah, no. I hadn’t.” Deep breath. He turned heel. “Well, Bull, nice seeing—“

“If separating yourself from what might be uncomfortable is really what you need to do, then do it.” Bull didn’t have to call out, his regular voice was loud enough to make Varric’s heels skid. “But I didn’t tell you because I wanted to warn you off.” 

He saw the struggle to find a response—any response—and took pity. “Look,” said Bull. “Why don’t you just try it out, and if you hate it, you can leave. No one’s going to judge you. Even Thea.” 

“Huh,” said Varric, because he was famously good with words. Bull laughed, and it actually helped ease some of the tension in his gut. 

“Your plan wasn’t to just never talk to either of them again, was it?” he asked. “Because that’s shit, Varric. For you and them. Anyway, wouldn’t you rather it be Thea first, instead of the little prince? Or, worse yet, _both_ of them at once.” 

And then, the ringer. Bull crossed his arms and said, bluntly, “Plus, things are coming to a head, here. If someone dies, would you feel good knowing you spent the last few months of their—or _your_ —life shutting yourself away?” 

Varric scratched his chin. Puffed a sigh. “Damn, you sure are a sweet-talker, Tiny.” 

Bull raised one eyebrow. 

“Fuck, fine, you’re right, you’re right. Unsurprisingly.” 

“I know,” Bull grinned, gesturing for Varric to come along. “Now get the hell up here. I’m starved after all this pep talking.” 

And because the way Varric built situations up in his head was almost never the way the Maker built them in real life, dinner was uneventful, even after Theodora walked into the hall and made startled, prolonged eye-contact with Varric, who politely sat at the opposite end of the table. All eyes darted uncertainly between them, but thanks to Dorian’s ability to talk through anything, conversation kept up, and there was no need for it to extend between the Inquisitor and Varric. 

She looked too tired to talk to anyone, anyway. Varric drew his mouth into a line, averting his eyes to his cup before she caught him looking. He knew that expression. The expression of someone running herself into the ground for the Greater Good. One day, Varric would like to give the Greater Good a stern talking to, and maybe a kick in the pants, for good measure. Just not before he also succumbed to work-based insomnia thinking about It. 

On a happier note, what was the point of staying up late if you weren’t drinking with your friends? 

And if you happened to be kicking their asses at Wicked Grace, too, well… Your name just might be Varric Tethras. 

“I think that’s fifteen sovereigns you owe me now, Buttercup.” 

“Uh, I think that’s fifteen—“ Sera stuck out her tongue and blew a raspberry across the table, “—you owe _me_ , dwarfy.” 

“I’ll have my people right on that,” said Varric, dealing out the next hand. He didn’t necessarily like being the dealer, but Dorian and Sera were too prone to cheating to be allowed anywhere near the deck, and Bull wormed his way out of it saying his hands were too big (though Varric had seen what that man could do with a whittling knife, and called bullshit). “Don’t you worry, your payment’ll be personally delivered by finest tongues in Thedas.” 

Dorian choked on a mouthful of wine, and Bull banged a fist on the table as he roared with laughter, which sent the cards flying and led Varric—grinning—to have to re-shuffle. A jack had landed face-up, and as he slotted it back inside the deck, listening to his friends laugh, Varric was unavoidably and without clear reason reminded how much he missed Tristan. The light in his eye dimmed a little as his heart twisted itself around like a washcloth. 

This happened a lot. Varric wondered what it was, that made every little thing remind him of Tristan. At this point, it was safer to say that he was always thinking of Tristan, just happened to get distracted from it once in a while. 

If he was writing a conversation about his thoughts, the conversation would end in the knowledge that this was just what being in love felt like. Just part of the deal. Although it probably wouldn’t hurt so much if he’d stop being a coward and just talk to him already—it had been long enough, he wasn’t _healed_ but he was doing okay, and he _missed_ Tristan, an ache in his bones like he hadn’t felt since he and Bianca—

Oh, and now it was back to comparing him with Bianca, was it? Varric forced himself not to make a fist, to shuffle normally, to set out their hands.

“You alright, Varric?” Bull asked. Varric blinked. 

“What? Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.” 

“Bullshit,” said Sera, blunt as ever. A burning sensation crawled up the back of Varric’s neck, white panic at the thought they were going to make him ‘fess up—

But Dorian took up his cards and flicked through them nonchalantly. “Hey,” he said. “Fake it ’til you make it, I’ve always said. The bastard knows we’re here if he needs us.”

“ _And_ if he doesn’t,” added Bull. Sera rested her head on Varric’s shoulder, and even though he was pretty sure it was a ruse so she could peek at his cards, Varric smiled, trying out the word _family_ in his head. 

_Dear Bianca,_

_Surprise, surprise—I'm fine. Or, I will be fine. Or, I’m trying to be fine._

_Look, I’m sorry. I never meant to put it off this long, I wanted to write, it’s just I couldn’t find it in me to pick up a pen. It’s still not easy, let me tell you, but at least there’s progress. You don’t have to worry about me, anymore. Or plot my elaborate, painful death._

_What happened at Adamant, you want to know? Well. I lost Hawke. He died there. Usually, in these things, I try to give an explanation, a play-by-play, but honestly none of that shit matters. Hawke’s gone. No finely-worded eulogies kissing his ass are going to fix how much that hurts._

_But I’m getting better. Really. I know it’ll never be really better, but I’m no use to anyone moping around for the rest of my life—plus, if Hawke knew, he’d kill me. He’d find a way._

_The point is, don’t worry. I’m lucky enough to have good people looking out for me here._

_Yours,_

_V_

It was a lot easier to write these things in the light of day, Varric had found. He blew on the ink for a moment, looking out over the mountains from his improvised nook in the battlements, the hard evidence that _yes, the sun_ had _risen again_ setting his mind at ease. He folded the letter, dropped it in an envelope, and sealed it, then gathered his small bag of writing implements and, humming to himself, headed to the roost to finally see this damn thing off. 

Bianca was going to kill him, but he’d known that for years. 

It was a nice day—the first in ages. Varric took his time on the way back to the tower, stopping to chat with anyone who looked dead on their feet (everyone), feeling well enough that when anyone asked how he was, his response was “Good,” instead of “Hanging in there,” or any other bullshit. And he was! How could anyone be less on a day like this?

When Varric walked through the great hall doors, Tristan stood at the fireplace, talking to a hooded dwarf, and the world came screeching to a halt. Tristan hadn’t noticed him (his brow was furrowed in concentration, something so unbearably _Tristan_ that Varric wanted to hit something, _that’s just not fair_ ). Varric could just sneak back out the doors, and—

Blue eyes met his across the room, and those straight shoulders pushed back as Tristan clasped his hands at the small of his back. “Varric,” he said. “Are you indisposed?”

And that forced formality, wasn’t that just a punch in the guts—but Varric didn’t have the right to flinch.

“Last I checked, I was at the Inquisition’s disposal,” he said, forcing a bravado, a casual smile, his feet to carry him across the room. “What can I do for you?”

“Your contact and I have been discussing her leads on a red lyrium smuggling operation,” he said. “We were thinking—“

“My contact?”

The dwarf, who’d been watching Varric with amusement since he’d walked up, chimed, “That’d be me,” and Varric finally forced his attention from Tristan long enough to recognize her. 

It was a strange feeling, only barely recognizing someone you’d once been supposedly in love with. Like they were comfortably familiar, but you didn’t know why until the pieces clicked in your head. 

“Is—something wrong? Davri said you were expecting her,” said Tristan, looking confused and slightly uncomfortable at the way Varric’s eyes had just bugged out of his head and he’d stopped breathing. 

“I was _not_ ,” was the most intelligible thing Varric could get out. 

“No?” said Bianca, smug and calm and playful and _fuck_ Varric had missed her. “You should have. Do you even know how long it’s been since you wrote?” 

“About twenty minutes,” said Varric, shoving the letter into her hands. His heart pounded so fast he thought it would escape. “Bianca, you know you shouldn’t be here, this place is crawling with—“

“Bianca?” Tristan’s head tipped to the side, a small tick for big thoughts. 

Varric looked at Bianca. He looked at Tristan. He said, “Shit.”

“Varric, is this—?“

“Hold on,” said Varric, holding up a hand, closing his eyes. When he opened them, his vision still swam, like heat was rising off the whole world. 

“Are you alright?” 

“Just—let me—give me one second.” He pressed the hand to his forehead, hauled himself together long enough to move to the chair by the fire and sit, breathe—why? Why was he like this? How could just the sight of two people together be enough to send him spiraling in broad daylight? 

Someone pressed something cool and metal into his free hand—Bianca, a flask. “You look like you could use this,” she drawled, and Varric looked up because he couldn’t hear her voice without seeing the attached half-smile. 

He laughed, “Thanks,” and took it, and ten years went away just like that. It was like she’d never left, but at the same time different, better. _Family_. 

Tristan coughed politely. “I imagine you have lots to talk about,” he said, stiffly. “I’ll leave you, and we can discuss the smugglers at a later—“

“No, you should stay,” Varric interrupted, then winced at his own tone, rubbed the back of his neck. “What I mean is, I’d like you to stay. If you want. If you will.” 

Tristan’s eyes flitted over his face, like he was searching for something, then nodded, purposely neutral. It was a start. It made something soft inside of Varric ache. 

“Maker’s breath, Varric,” said Bianca, and he looked over expecting her to roll her eyes, but those were glued to the now-open letter. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner? I would’ve been here—“

Varric stood, hyperaware of the constant stream of people going through the great hall. “We should talk somewhere else. Not that your disguise isn’t clever, but I don’t think the Guild’s going to be entirely convinced you’re not you just because you’ve got a hood up.”

“You’re worried about the _guild_ right now? _Varric_ —” 

“Bi _an_ ca,” Varric snapped back, which wasn’t fair, but before fire could start pouring out of Bianca’s eyes, Tristan smoothly cut through the argument. 

“Priorities notwithstanding, I do think it would be best to go somewhere private.” 

Varric thought they were going to the garden, but instead of finding a place among the leaves (Varric looked at the secluded bench in the corner with a pang of disappointment, replaced by relief when he looked at Bianca beside him, replaced by an irrational and confusing guilt), Tristan led them to a small door under the battlements. 

“If someone had asked me yesterday if this door existed, I would’ve said no,” said Varric as they went inside. 

“If they ask today, I would appreciate if you kept that answer,” said Tristan, keeping his back turned under the guise of fluttering around the room tidying invisible clutter. It wasn’t quite their old comfortable banter, but at least they were trying. Besides, there was nothing old or comfortable about this situation. 

The room was small and poorly lit, with only a thin horizontal window high on the far wall allowing for a band of sunlight. Tristan reached into a drawer in the desk at the center of the room, pulling out a box of matches and using it to light the candelabra beside it. His hands, in the unsteady candlelight, were exactly as Varric had remembered them. 

He looked away. An ancient tapestry hanging on the wall depicted (most of) Thedas, sans the portions the moths had gotten. 

“I like maps,” Tristan defended, after he saw Varric and Bianca looking at it. 

“Me, too, but I prefer the kind that get me places without having to work around holes,” said Bianca, tapping a bare spot on the wall where the Arbor Wilds should be for emphasis. 

Tristan’s eyes shone with amusement, despite his expression remaining deadpan. He liked her. It made Varric nervous, for entirely selfish reasons. If they became friends and found out about Varric’s feelings, there was no reason for them not to side with each other and turn on him for good. 

On the other hand, Varric sort of wished they would find out about his feelings, because he could use someone to tell him what they were. 

“Varric.” He blinked, and Bianca was there, standing in front of him with her hands gripping his shoulders, her eyes serious. “Deep breaths.” 

A shaky laugh came out. “Alright, alright. No need to bring out the scary eyes.” 

“These aren’t my scary eyes. You don’t want to see my scary eyes.” She pushed him toward an old yet undeniably Orlesian chair. “Now, sit.”

He did. She sat on a crate against the wall, and Tristan leaned back against the front of the desk, and they both stared at Varric like he was supposed to do something. 

“So you said something about red lyrium smuggling?” 

“Varric.” Bianca narrowed her eyebrows. “I’m obviously not here to talk about red lyrium smuggling. I could’ve just sent a missive to your spymaster.”

“Then you’re here because—“

“I’m here because I was worried sick about you, dick.” 

Varric grimaced, looking at his knees. 

“What the hell did you expect? All that shit about _if I die collect my debts_ in your last letter, and then nothing— _nothing—f_ or six fucking months! Of course I’m here, Varric.” 

“Has it really been six months?” Varric asked, quietly. 

_“Yes,”_ said Bianca and Tristan as one, though where Bianca maintained a controlled fury, Tristan went pink, like he hadn’t meant to answer, and drew his mouth into a thin line. 

“I… damn it.” Varric pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. _“Shit.”_

A warm hand smoothed over his back; Bianca. “Stop holding everything inside, Varric. It’s just us here. Just us.” 

“I’m just—“ He raised his head. “Shouldn’t I feel better by now? Even a little? Obviously it’s not that long, but long enough, right? Wouldn’t most people—”

“What are you talking about?” Bianca asked, bewildered.

“Well, it’s not going to _go away_ , it’ll never just be _gone_ , I’ll always miss him, I just didn’t think—first of all, didn’t think this would ever happen, but I really didn’t think it would feel like this.” He scrubbed his eyes. There was nothing wrong with crying, but he preferred to do it in private, with the doors locked and the bottles open. He laughed, uselessly, and asked, “How long is it going to feel like this?” 

Bianca’s hand was still on his back, not moving, just a solid weight. “I don’t know,” she said. “I’m sorry. I wish there was more I could do, but in the mean time, I’m here.” 

“We’re here,” said Tristan, quiet but strong. Their words caught Varric right in the ribs, lodged there long enough to make themselves comfortable. 

“I know. Thank you. I would say I’m here for you guys, too, but given my recent track record… I’ve done a shit job showing it.” 

“Yeah,” said Bianca, which made Varric smile. He looked at her and grinned and the realization hit him that she was _here_ , actually here, he could see her right in front of him and hear her voice and feel her hand on his back. She was real, not just some clever words on a page. 

“I’m glad you’re here,” he said. She squeezed his shoulder, so of course he had to ruin the moment. “Even though it’s really stupid of you.”

Bianca scoffed, rolled her eyes, and crossed the room to put her attention on the shitty map tapestry— _map_ estry!—again. “I can’t believe you’re still on that. Where’s the Varric I knew, who’d sneak me out at night right under the noses of my parents’ assassins?” 

“Assassins?” Shit, Varric had almost forgotten Tristan was here. He looked interested without attachment, like he was preoccupied thinking about something else. Probably sending assassins of his own. 

“That was a long time ago,” Varric said, hoping his grin wasn’t as queasy as he felt. 

“You two have known each other a long time.” Not a question, an observation, although one that was matter-of-fact. If just a little crack could appear in Tristan’s mask, something to let Varric know what he was thinking—rage, indifference, _anything_ would be better than having to guess. 

“Longer than most,” said Bianca, eyeing the two of them with open curiosity. “We met in Kirkwall.”

“I’ve never been.” Watching this exchange was the most surreal experience Varric had ever had. “I’ve heard it’s nice.” 

Bianca raised her eyebrows. “Have you?”

The corner of Tristan’s mouth twitched, eyes glinting. “No,” he admitted, and Bianca’s laughter filled the small stone room.

“Alright, now I see why Varric likes you,” she said.

Varric squinted at the wall. What did she mean by that, exactly? Because yes, of course it was clear Varric liked Tristan, or he wouldn’t have asked him to stay, but did she know—the rest? If she did, what was she thinking? They weren’t together anymore, hadn't been for more than a decade, and Tristan was _not_ the first person between, but he _was_ the first Person. What did she think about that, if she knew at all? Would she be angry? 

The sensible part of Varric’s brain argued that a) there was no reason for her to be angry, b) it was none of her business, whether she knew or not, and c), if Bianca was angry, it would be obvious. 

The rest of Varric’s brain argued _Traitor! Traitor! Traitor!_ Traitor to whom? Bianca or Tristan? _Both of them! Traitor! Dirty filthy traitor!_

“—Varric? You okay?” Bianca frowned.

“Maybe he needs some air. It’s always a little dusty in here,” Tristan suggested. 

“Sorry, I had a nightmare. What are we talking about?” 

Bianca looked halfway between swatting him upside the head and giving him a hug. Instead, she let it go. “I was telling him how we met.” 

A lump of panic rose up Varric’s throat, then burst out of him as laughter when he thought about the story. “I feel like anyone who hears that needs to sign a confidentiality agreement.” 

“You’ve something to hide, Varric?” Tristan asked. Only a handful of people in the world would be able to recognize the teasing light in his eye, and Varric was lucky enough to number himself among them. 

He decided at once to relax. So far, no one had given him any reason to freak out except himself, and he knew better than anyone how full of shit he was.

Varric leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms, and smiled. 

“No,” he told Tristan, “Not from anyone here,” and waved Bianca’s story along. 

  
The next time Varric cared to check the time, it was almost evening, and they’d been talking for hours. It was the first time in six months that Varric had really been able to breathe, and despite how anxious he’d been at the start, he was disappointed when Bianca pointed out the time—and the fact that she’d been on the road for weeks. 

“Tomorrow, we need to get a start on that smuggling ring,” she said, after accepting Tristan’s offer to have someone show her to a spare room. 

“I thought you’d made that up,” Varric said. 

“If only. Just happened to be a convenient excuse.” 

_Very_ convenient, if you asked Varric, but he was too tired himself to look deeper. Apparently, spending all day wired up on emotions was exhausting, who would’ve thought?

In theory, the day had been good, and just being in the same room as both of them, listening to their voices at the same time, made Varric realize that he’d spent all this time beating himself up for nothing. They seemed to get along well, despite all the reasons Varric imagined they wouldn’t—Tristan even laughed when Bianca told him about how her husband had threatened to publicly castrate Varric… which, now that he thought about it, might not be the best sign. And when Bianca caught Varric’s eyes lingering on Tristan even when he wasn’t talking, she only smiled, in that distinct, smug way of hers. 

Despite all of that, despite constant evidence that should’ve sent Varric’s guilt complex toppling off the side of the mountain, a shrapnel of doubt stayed lodged in Varric’s heart, the tiniest _what if—_

And then, before she left to “sleep for a damn long time,” Bianca wrapped him in her arms, tucked his head against her shoulder, and held him like that, not saying anything, saying everything at once. The kind of easy, deeply personal embrace that only old, old friends could share. 

The last person who’d hugged him like that was Hawke.

And that was the final piece, the moment where Varric could pinpoint with absolute certainty that he wasn’t in love with her anymore. 

“We’ll talk tomorrow,” said Bianca as she released him.

“We’ve been talking all day,” he pointed out, and she just shrugged.

“Call it _making up for lost time_ ,” she said, with a not-so-friendly elbow to his ribs as she walked past him to follow the maid who’d come to see her off. 

It was the first time he and Tristan had been alone together in six months. The weight of that hung awkwardly in the air as they sized each other up. The handful of feet between them felt wider than any of the distances Tristan’s missions had set. 

“Well,” said Tristan, without quite making eye contact. “She’s something. I understand now why you named your crossbow after her—apart, of course, from her being the designer.” 

“Yeah,” Varric chuckled. “One of a kind, the both of them.” 

“I was going to say _both best aimed at the enemy_ , but that’s certainly true as well.” 

Even if Varric tried, he wouldn’t be able to stop smiling. The simplest interaction like this after months of avoidance was enough to make him so happy it hurt. Why the fuck had he bothered? He was, without a doubt, a class A clown. The pinnacle of stupidity. 

Tristan finally looked at Varric long enough to realize he was staring. He frowned. “What?” 

“I missed you.” 

Confusion spread over Tristan’s face. “I was here. I’ve been here.” 

“I know—Maker, I know that _now._ I just feel so stupid.”

“You needed time.” 

“But I didn’t, did I? All these months, I’ve thought I could just get through it with enough time, but really what I needed was—“ _You._ Come on, Varric, try being even _more_ sappy why don’t you? He swallowed. “—but I was too much of a coward to even try to talk to you after that first night. And I shouldn’t have left you in the dark like that in the first place, not at all and definitely not for six fucking months—Maker’s breath.” He rubbed his eyes. “You must think I’m the worst.” 

“I don’t—“

“And honestly, it was just selfish of me. Maker knows I’m not the only person in the world who cared about Hawke. He was your friend, too, and I let you deal with it all by yourself without even asking if—without—hell, I rode off on my own from _Adamant_ , even, without so much as a goodbye—how shitty is that?“

“Please let me speak.” 

Varric’s mouth fell shut. There was no anger in Tristan’s tone, only a quiet command, an insistence in blue eyes which like the sea could make a path for themselves through anything.

“I’ve already forgiven you, Varric,” he said. “I’ve forgiven you every day.” 

“You shouldn’t have to.” 

“But I have. I will.” How could anyone have that much patience? If the Chantry didn’t name him a saint within the year, Varric was leaving it for the Qun.

“You can’t tell me you’re not angry.” 

“Of course I’m fucking angry,” said Tristan, the bite and the tongue that soothed it all at once. “I’m angry that you left, I’m angry that you avoided me for months, I’m angry that you asked our friends about me but you never asked _me_ , I’m angry that you think so poorly of yourself that you can’t even entertain the thought that I don’t think poorly of you at all, I’m angry that it’s taken this long, _I am angry_.” 

He took a deep breath, eyes closed. “I am angry,” he repeated, this time calm. “But I forgive you anyway, just like I forgave you for not kissing me at the Winter Ball, and for thinking I wouldn’t win that hand of Wicked Grace, and for telling people you thought I didn’t like you just because I didn’t know how to talk to you, and for thinking I’d hate Bianca just because you were in love with her once, and for occasionally waking me up with your snoring—of course I forgive you. How could I not forgive you?” 

Varric’s hands shook. “A person might get tired, forgiving someone for so much so often.” 

“No,” said Tristan, simply, smiling. “Not me. Not for you.” 

“You—“ Varric started, shaking his head in disbelief as Tristan tentatively took his hand. “—just. You.”

“After a speech like that, that’s all you have to say?” Tristan complained, but he laughed through it, helpless, nervous. Varric gripped his hand and pressed it to his lips, then rested his forehead against Tristan’s knuckles and just breathed. The door was open, and the night air that drifted in was cool and sweet with the smell of the garden, and Tristan’s skin was smooth and soft and smelled like the elfroot balm he used to combat the dry patches the cold, dry mountain air left in his skin.

How could he have ever given this up? How could he have ever thought he didn't truly want this?

Tristan’s other hand cradled the side of Varric’s head, his fingers curling carefully, so carefully, into his hair. _I’m here_ , it meant. Varric gave his hand another gentle kiss, _I know,_ then straightened up and pulled Tristan towards the door. 

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go for a walk.”

“It’s nearly nightfall,” Tristan fretted. “We’ve been in here all day, surely someone is looking for—“

“Is there somewhere you’d rather be?” There was a giddiness to asking that question and knowing the answer was _no_. 

Tristan looked down and realized that Varric hadn’t let go of his hand, that their fingers were entwined. He hesitated, looking around like he expected someone to jump out from behind a bush with a list of things that needed his attention, but they were alone in the garden, so he squeezed Varric’s hand and beamed. 

“It has been a long time since we’ve been on a walk,” he admitted. 

“Then we’d better get started, or we’ll never be able to catch up.” 

They’d been walking side-by-side for several minutes when Tristan said, quietly enough that Varric could’ve missed it, “We don’t need to catch up. Here, now, is just fine.”

  
Bianca was leaving that day, which would’ve been sad if Varric wasn’t still pissed at her. 

All the things in the world, and she wanted to go playing around with red lyrium? _Red lyrium?_ It had to be a joke. Smart as she was, if she got corrupted and let loose her machines on the world—well, Corypheus would be the least of their worries. 

Backing up, if she got corrupted, Varric would—

He didn’t know what he’d do.

Needless to say, Varric wasn’t happy that at their last time seeing each other in the flesh for Maker knew how long, they were both so angry they could barely look each other in the eye. 

Bianca coughed. “Varric—“ she began.

“When you get home safe, write to let me know,” he said, picking at a splinter on a crossbow bolt. 

“Of course.” She still stood there, arms crossed, toeing at the dying embers of their campfire. It was early morning, and Tristan had agreed to let Bianca have one of their horses to carry her back to Orzammar. She’d wanted to leave the night before, in the aftermath of their… less than clandestine delve into Valammar, but Tristan had insisted that everyone get a good night’s rest before any cross-country traveling embarked. 

And yes, yes, that was very sensible and noble of him (him being a sensible nobleman), but it also meant that Varric had to see her in the light of day. 

“Anything else?” he prompted, maybe a little meaner than necessary. She was still standing there with her tail between her legs, but when he said that, she seemed to change her mind and scowled. 

“No,” she said. “Nothing. I’ll write.” 

“Okay.” 

She drew breath as if to speak again, then let it go in a frustrated sigh and moved across the camp to speak to Tristan. They were too far away to properly eavesdrop, but Varric watched out of his periphery as she spoke to Tristan with a serious expression. The pair looked over at Varric, who quickly ducked his head, then raised it again just in time to see Bianca pull Tristan down by the shoulder to kiss his cheek. 

Conspiracies. Always with the conspiracies. 

Bianca mounted her horse and rode away, and Varric finally packed up his bag and walked over to Tristan. “What was that about?” he muttered. 

“No need to be terse,” said Tristan, shielding his eyes from the sun as he watched the horse ride off and totally unmoved by Varric’s black mood. “Are you ready?”

Varric squinted at the horizon. Now that Bianca was out of sight, he felt bad about how things went. He should be more careful how he said his goodbyes. He sighed. “Yeah,” he said. “Ready when you are.”

For the barest moment, Tristan’s hand rested on his shoulder and squeezed, but there were scouts around finishing last-minute preparations for their ride back to Skyhold. Even as Varric leaned into the touch, he just as soon flinched and whipped his head around looking for witnesses, only to meet eyes with Tristan, whose face had lost all expression, whose hand returned to his side.

“I’ll get the horses, then,” said Tristan, and did. 

Varric slapped himself in the forehead before he followed. 

  
It was a risky move, strolling up to the table where Cassandra worked and slamming a book down under her nose, but it was worth it when she slowly raised her head and her eye twitched. 

“Can I _help_ you.” 

Varric said nothing, just waggled his eyebrows. She, if possible, went even more red in the face.

“I would remind you that _some_ of us are busy working to _win_ this war and do not have time for charades or similarly childish antics, but I have the suspicion that you know all of that and simply do not care about, perhaps even _enjoy_ the act of wasting others…”

Her voice trailed off as Varric removed his hand from the cover of the book, eyes widening to twice their size (not saying much, since the constant scowling gave them a general squinting effect). 

“…Time,” she finished, mildly, spellbound by the cover. “Incredible. What does he think of it?” 

“I’ve not showed him yet. I’m waiting for it to actually be finished. I…” A stab of embarrassment hit Varric, before he remembered he hadn’t been embarrassed in something like twenty years. “I want to surprise him, you see.” 

“That’s…” She finally tore her eyes from the book to look at Varric. “That’s actually surprisingly romantic of you.” Before either of them had to process that, she barreled on with a cough. “So, it’s not finished?”

“Not quite. This is my advance proof copy. Just a final round of edits, then—“

She made a grab for the book, but Varric expected this and smoothly snatched it back. “Ah, ah, Seeker,” he said, frowning condescendingly. “How could I, in good conscience, allow someone to read a copy before it’s released? That’s just bad business! Not to mention, unfair to the hundreds—” 

“Varric.” 

“Nay, thousands—“

_“Varric Tethras_ , I swear on Andraste herself— _”_

“—dare I say _millions_ of avid fans who expect nothing less than—“

Cassandra stood so forcefully that her chair fell back and clattered across the floor. As she rounded the table, Varric took several steps backwards, opening his mouth to prepare a defense while at the same time recalling all possible exits. Speaking of which—

“What are you two fighting about now?” asked a tired, fond voice from the doorway. 

Cassandra skidded to a halt, standing at rigid attention. Varric quickly hid the book behind his back. 

“Ser Trevelyan,” said Cassandra. “I apologize for the noise. Varric was simply showing me his new—“ Varric’s foot went down hard on her boot, and her sentence was cut off as she hissed in air through her teeth and glared at him. 

“We were only talking, Stormy,” he said, smile jovial even as his heart pounded painfully against his ribs. “I needed the Seeker’s opinion on something, and she was a little enthusiastic in its delivery.” 

Tristan crossed his arms. The mid-afternoon sun beat down through the doorway, making his shadowy form even more menacing in it. 

“So…” Varric said. “How was the war table meeting?” 

“Fine,” said Tristan, diplomatically. “What are you hiding behind your back?” 

“What do you mean?” 

Tristan hummed, and turned. “Cassandra, what is Varric hiding behind his back?” 

Her eyes darted between them, ending up on Tristan. “It’s—“

“Nothing,” Varric interrupted. 

“Yet you won’t tell me.” 

“…No,” Varric agreed, then added, when Tristan’s expression went dangerously close to _pouting_ territory, “Not yet.” 

“Not yet,” Tristan repeated. Shit. Varric knew that look, the tense set of the shoulders. He was pissed. Varric wracked his brain, trying to think of something to say that might placate him, but Tristan just said, “Okay,” and left. No nonsense, no final glare, nothing. 

“Very smooth, dwarf,” Cassandra commented. 

Varric swore under his breath. “Watch this for me,” he said, and set the book on the table on his way out the door. It wasn’t like he wouldn’t have eventually let her look over it, anyway. 

“Tristan!” he called across the courtyard. Even though he’d jogged to try to catch up, Tristan was already halfway up the steps leading into the great hall. He must have heard, but he didn’t so much as glance over his shoulder. Great. Fantastic. Even when he was trying to do something nice, Varric continued to find new and remarkable ways to fuck everything up. 

In the sparring arena a few yards away, Iron Bull paused to squint against the sun first at Tristan’s retreating form, then at Varric standing defeated in the dirt. 

“What’s the matter with him?” Bull asked. “You put your shoes on the bed?” 

“No,” Varric said, without thinking, then choked on his own tongue as he whirled on Bull. _“Sorry, what?”_

Bull was too busy laughing and slamming his warhammer into an unsuspecting cadet’s shield to answer. Varric was going to need a lot of time (and liquor) to unpack that bag, so he left it tied up neat and tidy at the back corner of his brain and hurried up the stairs. 

In the great hall near the entrance to the war room, Josephine was in conversation with a Trevelyan—only, the wrong one. Varric approached them slightly winded. 

“—that should not pose an issue where my people are concerned—Ah, hello, Varric. How may we help you?” Josephine took his abrupt appearance in stride, though Theodora’s surprise showed for about a millisecond before she adopted the signature Trevelyan expression of aloof yet polite interest. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt important Inquisition business,” said Varric, trying desperately not to look like he was mid-crisis. “But since I already did, have either of you seen Tristan?” 

Josephine’s eyes flickered to Theodora, a look which the Inquisitor clearly felt but refused to return. “Not since the war table meeting,” Josephine answered. “Is everything okay? You seem uncharacteristically distressed.” 

“Me? Distressed?” Varric laughed. He laughed some more. “No, everything’s alright, it’s just—“ What the fuck was he _doing?_ These people were his friends (even if, in recent months, Theodora would rarely look him in the eye). He needed to slow down, take a deep breath. “Things are still a little rocky, between us,” he admitted—which was as close as he’d ever came to admitting out loud that he and Tristan were an _us._ Sort of. “I’m trying to make it better.” 

“That is commendable of you,” said Josephine, clearly bursting at the seams to pry him for gossip but, being a master diplomat, holding her tongue, even if she bounced a little on her tiptoes. “I believe earlier Ser Trevelyan mentioned plans to visit the library.” 

“Thanks,” said Varric, pivoting on his heel to head that way, feeling sunburnt.

“Varric.” Theodora Trevelyan’s voice could never be described as timid or hesitant, but it was clear that it had taken her the whole time he’d been standing there to work up to saying his name. 

Varric turned around, smiled in a way he hoped was more reassuring than queasy but definitely contained both. “Your Inquisitorialness?”

She visibly relaxed at the ridiculous nickname, and sounded much less forced when she asked, “How is he?”

Varric frowned. “Tristan?” 

Theodora nodded.

“He’s alright,” said Varric, though he had no idea. He wanted to put her at ease—it was unsettling, seeing her look so unsure, so lost.

“Good,” she said, a little soft, a little sad. Varric considered leaving it at that, but happened to share a look with Josephine, whose lips were pressed together in a thin line. 

“You know,” he said. “I can tell you from experience, he prefers that question posed directly to him—even if you don’t think he does.” Then, because he was brave enough for action but not brave enough to see the consequences, he smiled, waved, and retreated as he said, “Talk to you later, ladies.” 

On the bottom floor of the tower, Solas was busy at work on his mural. Used to people passing through, he didn’t bother paying Varric any mind until Varric called up to him on his scaffolding.

“Hey, Chuckles, did Tristan come through here?”

Solas paused his brush, squinted down at him. “…No,” he decided, and went back to work. “I’m afraid he said he did not.”

“He _said_ he didn’t?”

Solas nodded, distracted.

“So he did.”

“No.”

Varric rubbed his temples. “Look,” he said. “I’m just trying to do the right thing here—“

He jumped as, above, something was slammed on the floor and heavy footsteps stomped up to the railing. “Oh, Maker’s shaven ballsack!” Dorian hollered down. “Stop this absolute nonsense, would you? Must everyone in this organization be emotionally, romantically, and/or sexually repressed? He’s on the top floor sulking amongst the pigeons, now might I please have five minutes’ peace without someone storming into this place like a rampaging druffalo?” And with a final _humph_ and swish of silk, Dorian disappeared from the railing. 

Varric gaped upward. “Well, shit!” he said. “Anything else?” 

A brief puff of fire shot from the direction of Dorian’s library alcove, followed by indistinct scolding from the librarian and the start of a condescending lecture on the combustible properties of veilfire. 

Varric took the stairs two at a time, until he reached the last few, where he swallowed hard, slowed, entered with caution. 

At first look the roost was empty, but at second look, Tristan sat on the floor in a dark, quiet space between two tables stacked with papers. A raven perched on his knee, another on his shoulder. He stroked the one on his knee’s beak, while the other nipped at his hair. He didn’t look up as Varric approached, but the birds did, and flew up into the rafters. Varric stopped. 

“Hey,” he said. 

Tristan pulled his knees up to his chest. “Hi.”

“Surprised Leliana isn’t up here.” Yeah, Varric, because what better way to open up your emotions than with useless small talk? 

“I suppose she’s talking with her people,” said Tristan, quietly. “I was waiting for her.” 

“I can leave,” Varric said. “If you—“

Tristan shuffled to the side to make room for Varric to sit next to him. So Varric sat, leaning back against the cool stone wall, and there were a few moments of tense silence. 

“I’m sorry,” they said at the same time. Varric jerked his head around. 

“What? Why are you sorry?”

Tristan didn't look away from his fingers, which fidgeted atop his knees. “I may have overreacted. I should have just trusted that you wouldn’t hide anything important from me, and you said you would tell me eventually—plus, I shouldn’t expect you to tell me everything, anyway. I don’t,” he added, quickly.

“Well, that’s nice of you to say,” said Varric. “But something tells me that’s not what you’re really upset about.”

“I’m not upset,” Tristan muttered, pursing his lips. 

“It’s okay to be upset.” 

“I’m not!” 

Varric raised an eyebrow. Tristan had to try a few times before succeeding in meeting his eye and asking, abrupt but a little shy, “Do you still like me?” 

Later, when he was thinking back over this conversation, Varric would note this as the perfect time to say, _I love you_. 

In the moment, he threw his head back and laughed. “Like you?” he asked. “Tristan—“

“Don’t lie,” Tristan demanded, blue eyes narrowed and searching. Varric held on to one of his wrists, forcing down his laughter. 

“Of course I like you,” he said. “The whole world’s noticed I’m crazy about you.” 

Though he nodded, there was still that little crease between Tristan’s eyebrows. Varric wanted to smooth it away with the pad of his thumb, so he did. “Talk to me, Stormy. What gave you the idea I didn’t like you anymore?” 

Tristan took his hand, but Varric didn’t know if it was to make him stop touching him or to hold it. “I know you said to be patient with you,” he said. “And I am. I’m trying. And I know after everything with Hawke—“ Varric still flinched a little every time he heard the name, and Tristan rubbed his thumb over his knuckle reassuringly, “—I know it’s not going to be the same as before, at least not right away, because six months is a long time to not speak to each other and then go back to…” 

He took a deep breath, but forced himself on. “To this nameless thing we are. Nameless, because you won’t tell me what you’re thinking and I’m afraid to ask because I’m worried I’ll lose it—lose you. And I already did that, for _six months_ , and I tried to be patient, I truly did, but it was so hard, when you were right there the whole time, the _whole time_ , and I didn’t even know if I was allowed to say hello.”

“Shit, I know. I know.” Varric thunked his head back into the wall and squeezed his eyes closed. “I was fucking stupid. That’s what I was apologizing for—and for being such an asshole about… things. I mean, hell, I know it’s complicated, but after, what, nine months total? I shouldn’t be so freaked out over you _touching my damn shoulder_ in public.” 

Tristan hummed. “Yes,” he said. “That was… frustrating.”

“You mean bullshit.”

The bare hint of a smile. Varric loved that little smile. He loved seeing cracks in Tristan’s shell, even briefly, even when they healed up just as fast. “Yes,” said Tristan. “I mean bullshit. But at the same time, I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do.” 

“That’s the thing—I _do_ want to.” 

“Then why don’t you?”

“Because I’m Varric Tethras, biggest coward in Thedas.” He laughed, but Tristan didn’t.

“I hate when you speak badly of yourself,” he said. Varric’s mouth went dry and he looked away, focusing on a raven that had just landed on the railing and cocked its head at them. 

The tense pause dissipated when Tristan leaned against Varric’s side, resting his head atop Varric’s and puffing out a sigh. “When are we going to figure this out?”

“Do we need to?”

“What?” 

“Figure it out.” 

“Well _I’d_ like to,” said Tristan, sounding hurt. Varric set a hand on his knee. 

“Not what I meant, Stormy. ‘Course I’d like to, but I have a feeling if we wait around until we figure shit out, we’ll be waiting around forever.”

“Then what do you suggest we do in the meantime?” 

“Whatever we want.” 

“Oh.” Varric could hear Tristan thinking, gears turning, heart pounding. Tristan sat up, eyes meeting his before sliding down. 

Varric smiled. “What?” he teased. 

“I want to kiss you.”

“You don’t say.” Varric gently cupped his chin, waiting a second to watch Tristan’s eyes slip closed before leaning in to press their lips together. 

It had been too long since their last kiss, long enough that Varric had come dangerously close to forgetting what it was like, but this one not only reminded him how things were, but that they could be that again. 

Varric still had one letter left to write.

He was reminded, like a slap, every time he walked into his quarters and saw his desk waiting with fresh ink and blank paper. 

At first, he’d been waiting until it felt real, but as days and weeks and months dragged on, Varric had come to the sinking suspicion that it would never quite feel real, that one day he’d wake up and Hawke would be there waiting on him, _Come on, sleepyhead, what took you so damn long? Maker knows no amount of beauty sleep’s going to do you any good._

Varric closed the door slowly, eyeing up his desk like it might start spitting acid.

It wasn’t fair. To himself, to Hawke, and sure as fuck not to Fenris, but…

He’d do it tomorrow, he decided, ignoring the fact that it was the same thing he’d told himself yesterday, and the day before, so on et cetera. Tomorrow. 

If he slept with his back to his desk, well. No one had to know. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you, as always, for reading, kudos, and (especially) comments! sorry abt the sad, but lbr, we all know hawke doesn't Really die in the fade.


	5. Chapter 5

Hands shoved in his pockets, Varric stood waiting for Tristan to finish speaking to Dennet about the mounts and forced himself to maintain an easy grin. He had a lot of practice at such things. He could smile easily at almost any time, provided no one cared if the smile was faked. 

Tristan led his horse—a huge, white mare—over to where Varric stood near Sera, Solas, and Bull, who were already finishing up their tacking and pointedly “Not Eavesdropping” (well, to be fair, Varric didn’t imagine Solas caring enough to bother even accidentally eavesdropping). 

“You’re sure you don’t mind staying?” Tristan asked in an undertone, worrying at his horse’s reigns enough to make her _harumph_. 

“Stormy,” Varric said, stifling a laugh. “If I minded, I wouldn’t stay.” 

Tristan considered this, then nodded. 

“Besides,” Varric added. “In what world would I be upset to _not_ go to the Fallow Mire?”

The last bit of tension left Tristan’s shoulders and he huffed out a breath that was _almost_ public laughter. “It’s not so bad. Just a bit of shallow water.” 

“Some of us are less privileged in the height department.” 

“And some of us think others are just fine in the height department,” Tristan stated with just the beginnings of a fond little smile, and bent like a storybook prince as if to kiss Varric’s forehead, only to catch himself and stop awkwardly—“Sorry, sorr—“

_Fuck it._ Varric grabbed the front of Tristan’s shirt and pulled him down to kiss him, soft and brief, on the mouth. 

Somewhere to his left, Sera’s scream was muffled by Bull’s hand covering her face. The clink of gold exchanging. A large part of Varric was horrified, but in a good way, somehow, helped along by the smile that now plainly painted Tristan’s mouth. 

“Sorry, folks,” said Varric, waving a hand at the other three who openly stared. “He had something on his face.”

“Yeah,” Sera cackled, “ _You.”_

“If we’re quite done.” Tristan swung into the saddle, cheeks flushed. “It’s time we’re off.”

“What you say goes, Boss,” said Bull with a wink—well, Varric assumed it was a wink, but you could never tell with Bull—in Varric’s direction. Varric didn’t have time nor inclination to figure out what that meant. 

He held up a hand as their four horses began to plod towards the gates. “Don’t find too much trouble!” 

One last smile tossed over Tristan’s shoulder. “I always do!” 

Something pinched inside Varric’s chest, nauseating deja vu—but he shook it away. Nothing was wrong, just bad memories. They’d be back soon enough, and in the mean time, Varric had promised Leliana he’d help her look over some documents she thought might make particularly interesting blackmail.

"Alright, kid, let’s try again. Hold them like this.” Varric held up each half of his deck between thumb and middle finger, waiting for Cole to match him with his own deck. After a bit of fumbling, Cole managed to hold them up as well, beaming. 

“Perfect,” said Varric. “Now you just…” He slowly shuffled the cards on the table, then looked to Cole encouragingly, holding his breath. 

He tried to ignore the fact that this was their fifteenth attempt. Mindsets like that tended to put a damper on encouraging looks. 

Cole stared at the cards in his hands, eyes narrowed, tongue between his teeth, and shuffled them perfectly. Varric laughed and hopped to his feet. 

“You did it! Great work, kid, see? Just like anything, just takes practice—uh.” 

Cole continued staring at the cards, expression now lax. He swiped a hand through them slowly, spreading a pile on the table. 

“Uh, Cole? You alright, buddy?” 

“Ace of hearts,” said Cole. The cards were all face-down, but he plucked one up and turned it over. Ace of hearts. “That’s all he is, now, just the ace of hearts. It was okay when there were two—“ Oh, would you look at that. Another card, this one the two of hearts, picked up at random. “ _It was enough, looking at the moon and knowing it was the same one he saw. I didn’t need to have him, only to know he was there, somewhere. Gone, gone. Full moon tonight, bloody freezing here, people looking, don’t worry, they can’t recognize you, where is Varric?”_

“I’m right here, kid,” said Varric, feeling sick. “What’s going on in that head of yours?” Not quite the right phrasing. Head of someone else’s. Someone Varric was afraid he knew. How the hell could Cole—

Cole’s eyes locked on Varric’s, brimming with tears. “It hurts so much,” he said. “He tries so hard, _why does nothing ever work?_ ”

“Cole—“

A pale hand shot across the table to grab Varric by the wrist. “Please, you can help. He’s looking for you. You have answers—none of them the right answer, but better than nothing— _Maker, anything is better than this—_ “ Cole’s shoulders began to shake. 

Varric pulled his arm free, only to round the table and wrap his arms around Cole. “It’s alright, kid. It’s alright.”

“There’s nothing I can do,” Cole whispered, closing his eyes. “He’s hurting so much, for so long, it’s _everywhere—_ “ 

“I know,” Varric said, rubbing his back. Cole’s hands fell uncertainly on Varric’s shoulders, squeezing. 

“He’s so… _angry.”_

Varric just held him tighter. 

After minutes, Cole took a shuddering breath and opened his eyes. “Thank you, Varric,” he said. “That… was difficult. You should go to him.” 

Thinking through his words carefully, Varric’s arms fell back to his sides and he shifted his feet. “Listen, kid,” he began. “I know you’re trying to look out for everyone, but I can’t just go around in the middle of the night looking for strangers on a whim. Odds are, if someone angry’s looking for me, I don’t want them to find me.” 

Unblinking, Cole’s eyes stayed fixed on Varric’s. Varric cleared his throat.

“Seriously. A dwarf can get into a lot of trouble, going around looking for… uh.” 

Varric looked around, confused. He could’ve sworn he’d been talking to Cole, but the kid was nowhere in sight. In fact, Varric was quite certain he hadn’t seen him all evening. Shame. He was going to teach him how to shuffle cards right, but he guessed Cole was busy. Another time, then. It was about time for Varric to get to sleep, anyway. 

Though Varric enjoyed and naturally gravitated towards being the center of attention in a crowd, he also knew how to pass easily and undetected through them, which came in handy at times like this, when it was past midnight and the patrons of the Herald’s Rest showed no signs of slowing down. He slipped downstairs and out the door, immediately feeling the cold air turn his nose pink. 

Breathing in almost hurt, but in a sharp, pleasant way, like chewing a leaf of mint. Varric stuck his hands in the pockets of his coat, breathed in, and started to walk. 

And felt someone grab him, press a hand over his mouth, and drag him into a door in the wall. 

_“What the fuck—“_ Varric yelled, though it was muffled, and elbowed his assailant in the ribs.

“Ouch—Wait!”

The elbow didn’t work, so Varric grabbed the arm wrapped around his neck and twisted it behind him, kicking back and cracking his boot into a knee. 

_“Fuck—_ “ the man wheezed, stumbling back and landing on his ass in a pile of moldy straw. Varric drew a knife off his own person (one of many), grabbing the man by the front of his shirt and hauling him so his neck was just shy of the blade. 

“Who sent you? No hard feelings, I just need to ask them why they didn’t think I was worth someone better than you.” 

With one hand raised in surrender, the man slowly raised the other to take off his hood. “It's me, Varric.” 

After a moment of white-knuckled consideration, Varric lowered the knife and stepped back. 

“Anders.” 

Anders grimaced. He looked like shit—eyes purple and hollow, face unshaven and gaunt. “Do you always greet old friends like this?” 

“We’re not—“ Varric bit, then stopped, thinking of Hawke, and family, and sighed. A hard silence. “I would ask why you’re here, but…” 

Slowly, unsteadily, Anders sat up. “I had to know.” 

“You already know.”

“I had to be _sure_.” A wild look in Anders’ eyes, studying every micro expression on Varric’s face, hoping for something that just wasn’t there. “I couldn’t just go on and not be certain that… that he’s…” His voice wavered, and for the first time, his eyes slid away from Varric’s.

“You’ve got some guts coming here, Blondie, I’ll give you that.” 

“I had to know,” Anders repeated, softly. Varric nodded, because he supposed he understood, and after a moment of repugnance, he went over and made a seat on the ground beside Anders, groaning softly as he lowered his weight. The air in his lungs, sweet only minutes before, now just stung. 

“How—“ Anders began, at length, then swallowed, began again, steadier. “How did it happen?” 

Varric cast a look out of the corner of his eye. “You sure you want to know?” 

“I have to.” 

So Varric told him, everything he knew, starting from that last, dumbass grin Hawke sent over his shoulder as he rode out of Varric’s sight. And when it was done, there were no tears. Varric didn’t have any left, and Anders instead held his jaw in a proud, bitter line. 

“So he didn’t have to do it.” 

“I think he did.”

“There must’ve been another way.”

“In Hawke’s eyes?” Varric laughed, without humor. “I doubt it.” 

Without looking, Varric could feel Anders’s eyes glancing every few seconds at him. After a pause, he said, “You know what you—in your letter, what you said about me… about how I…” 

“Yeah,” said Varric, quiet. “I know.”

“I almost told him,” Anders confessed. “The last time I saw him, I thought about—I just didn’t want to ruin anything, but now I wish, more than _anything_ , I wish—“

“For what it’s worth, I’m sure he knew.”

Anders shook his head, staring at his feet. “That’s not the same. I should’ve told him. Now—” He looked up at the ceiling and laughed, manic and sad at once. “Now I’ll never be able to.” 

Varric almost reached for his shoulder, but stopped, and let silence creep up again, until Anders scrubbed at one of his eyes and laughed again. 

“I can’t imagine what Fenris is going through, if I feel like this.” 

An involuntary tensing, shifting of the weight, hiss of breath through the teeth. Anders’s head whipped around. 

“You haven’t told him.”

“Well…” Varric began, and didn’t finish, because he had nothing. Anders sat up.

“Are you fucking serious?”

“I’ve been busy—I—I…” 

“You’re afraid." When Varric said nothing, Anders drew his mouth into a thin, disapproving line. “I know you, Varric. Big heart, small liver.“

“That a dwarf joke, Blondie?”

Anders started to smile, then schooled himself. “You must tell him. Hawke would want him to know—to be the _first_ to know—“

“I know—“

“And when Fenris finds out you told me before him, he’s going to kill you. I’m rather that way inclined, myself.” 

Varric fidgeted with a piece of straw, bending it this way and that until it collapsed into fragments. “I just,” he started, then stopped.

“What?” 

“I just want him to still be alive to someone, you know?” 

When there was no immediate response, Varric looked over at Anders, who stared resolutely ahead, jaw held tight, bottom lip drawn close to his teeth. It took him a long time to eventually get out a soft, “Yes.” 

Varric hauled himself up with a sigh. “You get everything you came for?” 

Looking up at him, Anders shrugged, lopsided, helpless. “I suppose, yes.” 

“Then you’d better get out of here before someone important sees you.” After fighting an inward battle, Varric offered Anders a hand, and Anders’s eyes flickered between it and Varric’s face—understanding the weight of the gesture—before accepting it and being pulled to his feet. 

They stood awkwardly in the moonlight let in via a hole in the ceiling. Anders cleared his throat. 

“Well.” 

Varric raised his eyebrows. “Well.” 

“Thank you, Varric. I know it wasn’t—I know you didn’t want to see me.” 

“See you? I didn’t want to think about you.” 

Anders tugged a piece of straw off his sleeve. “Right.” 

Varric grimaced. Everything felt wrong. He wished, suddenly, and for the first time in a while, that they were back in the old days, when their biggest real threat was getting thrown out of the Hanged Man before the party was over. When they were all together, and Anders still smiled and Varric could look at him without getting a sick feeling in the pit of his chest. 

He reached out, stiff but deliberate, and squeezed Anders’s arm. “We may not see eye to eye, anymore,” Varric said. “Even a little bit. Hell, maybe we never saw eye to eye.” 

“This is quite an uplifting speech. You should be an author.” 

Varric smiled, releasing Anders’s arm to swat at his comment. “My point is,” he said, “I missed you. And if you ever need anything—provided it doesn’t include the words ‘mage rebellion’ or ‘acts of terrorism’—“ Anders scowled, opened his mouth, but Varric pressed on before he could speak. “—you let me know. Okay?” 

Anders smiled, and for the first time all night it went to his eyes. “Thank you. The same to—“

“Yeah, yeah.” Varric turned around and started walking. “Get out of here, Blondie, before someone asks if I saw which way you went.”

On impulse, he looked one more time over his shoulder as he went out the door. Anders was already gone. 

When the horn sounded, Varric looked up from his desk and smiled. They were early—the Inquisition party wasn’t due back for another few weeks, at least. He lopsidedly finished the sentence he’d been writing, then put away his pen, capped his ink, closed the window (the last time he’d left it open, there’d been an… Incident involving a bird which he’d rather not repeat), shouldered on his coat and, unable for some reason to stop smiling, headed for the door.

The door opened on its own before he could walk out. Or, more accurately, Cassandra opened the door for him. She was of her usual complexion, which was slightly redder than the average person and far more scowl-y (to use a technical term). 

“Seeker," he beamed. “To what do I owe this breach of priva—“

“You need to get to the infirmary,” she interrupted. His smile dropped. _Don’t think the worst, don’t think the worst._

“I appreciate the concern, but last I checked all my important faculties were intact.” 

Her voice shook behind its strength. “It’s Tristan.” 

Varric’s vision swam. “What?” 

“He—something happened, they had to rush him back here, he isn’t—he doesn’t—he’s not—“

“Is he alive?” 

Cassandra dropped his gaze for a second, and for a second, Varric thought he might collapse like a paper boat left in the pond too long. “Yes,” she said. “But…” 

_Run_ was not the right word for what Varric did—it was too clean, unable to take into account the ragged breath, the wobbly knees, the double-time heart. 

“Varric!” There was a crowd outside the infirmary, blocking the entrance. Sera split off from it to run up to him, and if she wasn’t smiling, it must be the worst, something awful must have—

She put her hands on his shoulders to stop him from barreling ahead. “Varric, I’m so sorry, we couldn’t—it was so dark, you know what it’s like, and the water—that thing, it tore us up something horrible, and then when it pulled him under, we couldn’t—we couldn’t find him, and—“

“Sera,” said Varric, low and controlled. “Let me through.” 

“I’m just trying to—“ A shuddering breath, tears glittering like knives. “Varric, you have to understand, he’s not—he hasn’t been able to talk, and I don’t think—we don’t think he recognizes anyone—“

_“Sera.”_

Her hands fell to her sides and she stepped aside, worrying her lip. Varric shoved his way into the room, shrugging off cajoling and admonitions and _you shouldn’ts_ and there—

There Tristan was. Laid on a cot. Pale as paper. His eyes darted and rolled, unfocused but frantic, though the rest of him lay still as the calm before a storm—and the storm came, a wretched cough that hacked up mouthfuls of water. His mouth moved as soundlessly as his eyes. Blood stuck tacky to his skin, glueing clothes to open wounds everywhere _everywhere_. 

A healer took a knife and sliced Tristan's shirt down the front, pulled the cloth free—a slash reopened and Tristan thrashed on the cot, clawing and trying to scream but unable to make more than a hoarse moan. Bull, stationed at the head of the bed, grabbed Tristan at his arms and held him down. 

“Easy, boss, hold still, there’s a good man.” 

Tristan’s eyes, locked on Bull’s, showed no understanding, no trust, only fear. It made Varric’s blood freeze over. _We don’t think he recognizes anyone,_ Sera had said, and Varric wondered how she hadn’t been sure—if anyone looked at him like that, he’d—

A coughing fit wracked Tristan’s whole body and he writhed in panic and pain, kicking the healer who’d been trying to close the wound across his chest. He wriggled one arm free, only for Bull to get another grip on his forearms and slam them down on the cot on either side of Tristan’s head—a lost cause, but Tristan kept struggling, kept _bleeding_ , _fuck, all that blood—_

“For fuck’s sake, he’s not an animal!” Varric snarled, fear like bile in his throat as he shouldered his way into the room past the horde of useless healers and nosy eavesdroppers and worried friends and for the moment he didn’t give about a single damn one of them because as far as he was concerned, there was only one person in this world who mattered. 

“Tristan,” he breathed, pressed up beside the cot and laying a shaking hand on Tristan’s brow to smooth back the damp, matted hair. 

Tears leaked out of Tristan’s eyes, squeezed shut in pain and frustration, and Varric drew the pad of his thumb along his cheekbone to wipe them away. And Tristan stopped pulling against Bull’s grip, pried open his eyes, saw Varric.

And he smiled. 

And Varric said, "I love you,” as natural as air in the lungs and as foreign as water. 

A thousand times. He wanted to say it a thousand times, every day for the rest of his life and more after that, if he could. Though he was terrified, he felt a smile take over half his face as Tristan’s blue eyes warmed over, only to fall shut, fluttering in a weak attempt to stay open, mouth moving soundlessly. 

The rest of the world came back with someone clearing his throat. 

“Varric,” Solas said—where the hell had he come from? Well, there were people everywhere, too many, why couldn’t they just _go away_ —“The healers must be able to reach him.” 

Varric’s instinct was to lash out, but he reined himself in and nodded, forcing himself to pull away, but as soon as his hand left Tristan’s forehead, Tristan’s eyes flew wide with fear. 

“Nn,” he gasped, eyes darting wildly. “Nno, no—“

“Alright, okay—“ Varric found his hand again and squeezed it. “I’m here, I’m not leaving you, so don’t you—don’t you leave either, Stormy. I can throw just as good a fit as anyone in this place.” 

Tristan’s eyes drifted shut again, the only indication that he might have heard a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth that could also be the product of nerve damage. 

Solas gave a gentle cough and the gathered healers seemed to remember that their job weren’t to stand there. They worked efficiently around Varric, almost managing to pretend he wasn’t there except when their eyes would dart towards his hand in Tristan’s. It happened a lot. Each time felt like a needle, but it was a small price to pay, and if anyone thought Varric was going _anywhere_ , they were sorely—

The door flew open again. Varric looked up, squeezed his eyes shut. _Fuck_. 

There was no shoving for Theodora; for her, the crowd parted easily. She had clearly run here, but as she approached and her eyes studied Tristan’s face, his ragged breath, her speed faltered. 

“Inquisitor,” Varric said, shakily, unsure himself if it was a greeting or something else, an apology, a request. She looked at him and her eyes were red and swimming, and, selfishly, he looked away because he didn’t want to see her cry. 

She didn’t notice, or didn’t take it personally. She stood at Tristan’s other side and breathed like someone trying not to scream.

“They say he will live,” said Solas, a respectful several feet back. “There was something under the water that dragged him in. We could not see it. I’m… sorry.” This was the first time Varric had ever heard Solas speak so softly, as though afraid of frightening off a bird. Probably, like Varric and everyone else in the room, afraid—on top of the fear of losing one Trevelyan—of what would happen to the other if that one was gone. 

“He was already bleeding too much, and when it pulled him into the water—“

Theodora reached out and pushed Tristan’s hair back off his forehead, just as Varric had earlier. Again, Tristan leaned into the touch, opened his eyes. Horror pooled in Varric’s belly when for a moment, it seemed like his eyes slid past her unknowing, but then Tristan lurched upwards. 

“Theod—“ He interrupted himself with a cough that brought up another mouthful of water. She gently pushed him back down, and Varric realized that the resistance he felt in his hands was Tristan trying to reach for her, which, when Varric let go, he did, clumsily and without an ounce of his usual reserved grace. 

Theodora took his hand in both of hers, and through that touch alone her shoulders lost their tension. 

“Tristan,” she said. “You’re okay.” It wasn’t quite relief, nor was it a call to action, but something of both. 

For his part, Tristan opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, and shook his head. If Varric hadn’t just had all his humor for the day drained out of him, he would’ve laughed, but as it was he felt tears sting at his nose because this meant, he had no doubt, that Tristan would make it. 

“Yes you are, you big dummy,” Theodora said, part laughter part water. “Everything’s gonna be fine. Don’t be afraid. I love you.” Tristan started to smile, but it looked like it hurt. “You’re not gonna die on me, asshat. Not allowed.” 

Well, if Theodora said it wasn’t allowed, it must be true. 

“I’m sorry,” a healer piped in—one of the older ones, who after years of practice had perfected the art of saying _I’m sorry_ and meaning _You’re sorry_. “But I truly must ask you all to let Tristan rest. We need to draw water out of his lungs, and unless you would like to witness that process…” 

“No problem,” said Varric. A lie. There were problems as far as the eye could see. But he stood back, and as Theodora started prying herself out of Tristan’s hands, Varric eased the fear in Tristan’s eyes with a small, gentle kiss to the top of his head. 

He felt it, on the tip of his tongue. _I love you_. He turned away.

Bull, who had extracted himself once it became clear that his size and strength were doing more harm than good in the little room, was posted just outside the door, leaning on the wall with his arms crossed and a crease between his eyebrows. 

“He must be doing better, if you’re out,” he said, as Varric left the infirmary. 

“I suppose he’ll live,” said Varric. He tried for a smile, but it caved in as soon as he looked up at Bull and he ran a shaking hand over his face. “Maker’s breath, he’d fucking better—I can’t—“

“Don’t you go breaking down now, Varric,” Bull warned. “He needs you strong, just like you need him strong. He will be okay. And so,” Bull added, “will you. Here.” He held out his hand to Varric, palm open, holding a familiar length of chain with an odd, cylindric pendant, pulsing with a faint, warm glow. 

“You know what this is, yes?” Bull rumbled. 

“Yeah,” said Varric, frowning. “How did you—?”

“I took it before we turned him in to the infirmary. Didn’t want anyone getting the wrong ideas. That thing’s not exactly legal. Here, take it.” 

Gently, Varric accepted the chain. “Why—“

“Insurance. This way, you’re not giving the healers grief, checking up on him day and night. Just watch that little light, hm?” 

Varric closed his fingers around the necklace. The metal was cool against his skin. “Thank you, Bull,” he said, soft, then laughed uncomfortably and pretended there could be another reason he swiped his sleeve across his eyes. Time for a subject change. 

“Where’s Sera? I thought she was out here with you.” 

“I sent her home. She was spending too much time beating herself up.”

“It’s not her fault,” Varric was quick to say. “You, Solas, Sera—from what I hear there was nothing you could do, and even if there was, it’s still none of your faults.”

“We know that,” Bull rumbled. “That’s the problem. It’s nobody’s fault, so it feels like everyone’s fault.”

“I should’ve gone with you, I don’t know what I was thinking—“

“Hey, remember what I _just_ said?” 

Varric grimaced, but Bull didn't hold it against him, only broke the tension in the air with an easy laugh. “Come on,” he said. “He’ll be alright, he’s in good hands. Right now, we need a drink. _You_ need a drink.”

“I won’t argue there.”

Just before they went inside the Herald’s Rest, Bull said, seriously, holding open the door, “You’ll be alright, too, you know.” 

Varric smiled, and said, “We’ll see.”

Three drinks in, Bull looked up from the bar and said, “Here comes T.”

Varric didn’t want to look around too obviously, so he asked, “She look okay?” only to not receive a response, look over, and see that Bull had disappeared. 

How such a big guy could slip away so easily would forever baffle Varric. 

It didn't matter. Varric’s answer came in the form of a small, beat-up sort of smile on the Inquisitor’s mouth as she approached his seat at the bar. 

“Varric,” she said. 

“Inquisitor,” he replied. They shared a long look, tense smiles that weren’t forced, per se, only wished to be frowns. 

“May I sit?” Theodora asked, after a beat, and Varric pulled out the stool beside his, tapped the bar to get Cabot’s attention. They drank together quietly for some time, comfortable with each other, uncomfortable with it. They were friends, sure, but only because they sort of had to be after this long. They’d never had much in common besides the Inquisition—besides Tristan. 

“They say he’ll be alright,” said Theodora. 

“I believe it," said Varric—he had to, didn’t he? He took a swig of his ale, gestured at her with his cup. “They make you Trevelyans out of tough stuff.” 

The corner of Theodora’s mouth twitched—maybe the beginnings of a proud smile, or of a grimace. “So they tell me.” 

She sipped from her own drink, and there was certainly a grimace. “Ugh,” she said, scrunching her nose in an expression so _Trevelyan_ that it made Varric beam, despite it all. 

“Tastes like shit, huh?” he said. “It works, though.” 

“It does,” she sighed. “I try not to make a habit of it. There are certainly… healthier ways of coping.” 

“What’s your poison, Inquisitor?” 

“I—“ She pressed her lips together, swirled her drink around in the bottom of her cup. “I would usually talk to Tristan.” 

Varric chewed his tongue. “Ah,” he said, awkwardly.

“But to be honest, I haven’t been able to do that in a while, even before—well.” She sighed. “There’s just been a lot going on.” 

“I know,” said Varric, gently. “Trust me, things have been complicated on my end, too.” 

“How have you been, Varric?” 

Varric blinked, taken aback. How has he been? Did she mean, how has he been today, or this week, or this month, or this past year? Because there were ups and downs, both in the extremes. How has he been?

He shifted on his stool. “I’ve been better,” he decided, finally. “You?” 

A quick smirk. “I’ve been better. May I ask you something?” 

“Shoot,” said Varric, despite the uneasy feeling that question always gave him.

“Do you love him?” 

All the air left Varric’s lungs, and some of the alcohol from his mouth. He wiped his chin, coughing. “What?” 

“You heard me.” 

“Tristan?” 

She raised her eyebrows. There was no playing dumb with Theodora Trevelyan. 

“That’s a complicated question,” Varric said, like the coward he was. Saying it to Tristan had been easy, but that was… different. Somehow. It was too private, too personal, too raw to say to someone else. Because she could ask if he loved Tristan, and he could say yes, but would she understand? Would she know that when he said _I love him_ , he meant he could do nothing else in his life, he meant that it was a feeling always there in the back of his mind—anger, sadness, joy, anything he felt, somewhere there was that love, too, tearing him to pieces and holding him together at once. 

“Complicated,” she said, unamused. 

“Do you love Cullen?” 

“Yes,” she said instantly, then turned bright red and began to choke. “Shit, uh, I mean—“

Varric laughed. “See? Complicated.” 

“It’s different. We’re not—It’s stupid.” 

“You two are, yeah.” 

“Fuck you,” she said, but smiled as she did. “You know it’s different. I’m probably going to die. It would be so incredibly stupid to start something like that now. We can’t—we shouldn’t, and we’re not going to.” 

Varric felt something tug at his heart for her, and found himself thinking, as he often did but wished he didn’t, of Hawke. And yeah, it was no secret that Theodora and Hawke hadn’t exactly been pals, but still, Varric felt like if Hawke were here, he’d know exactly what to say. He always had. 

But he wasn’t. So Varric tried to imagine what Hawke would say, and maybe that would be close to the right thing. 

“You know,” he said. “Maybe you’re right.” 

“What?” 

“Maybe you will die. Maybe _he’ll_ die—“ She flinched like she’d been kicked. Varric shrugged. “And maybe it is stupid to start something. But I’ll tell you a secret an old friend told me, once.” He waited until she looked him in the eye, and said, slowly and seriously, to leave no room for argument, “You deserve happiness just as much as anyone else.”

Before he slipped out, he squeezed her shoulder tightly and ordered her another drink. 

_Dear Fenris,_

_It’s been too long since I’ve written—even more so, when you find out why I’m writing._

_I don’t have any damn excuse, so I won’t make up any. In all honesty, I’m not even really sorry. If I had it my way, you’d never know. But that’s not fair. I knew that six months ago, and I knew it last week, but it only really clicked for me today when I thought I’d lose my_

_But that doesn’t matter. What I have to tell you is…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all so much for the continuing support—seeing your kudos and comments really make my heart soar!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> last chapter before the epilogue! i hope you like it, it's one of my favorites

Tristan had been out of his sickbed for all of two weeks, and during that time, he’d taken things easy, laid low, and allowed others to do the heavy lifting while he fully recovered. 

“Will you _please_ do something useful or get out of my way, _some_ of us are attempting to win a war here.” 

Yeah, right. 

Even limping on a crutch, Tristan was a formidable adversary to the unsuspecting volunteers who hauled supplies onto carts in preparation for the army’s impending journey to the Arbor Wilds. It was a beautiful day to get ready to send thousands of people to their deaths. Heroic deaths, of course (Varric was nothing if not an optimist), but deaths nonetheless. 

The day of reckoning approached faster with every passing hour, like a batch of dough that got easier to knead the longer you worked at it. 

Varric would say he wasn’t terrified, but really, he was just trying not to think about it. Impending war aside, had plenty to worry about at Skyhold.

“Plenty’s” name rhymed with Tristan Trevelyan. 

“Oh, just let me—“ Tristan tutted, propping his crutch against the back of a cart and stooping to help a poor, defenseless young foot soldier lift a crate of provisions, and it was then that Varric cleared his throat. 

Tristan didn't jump—nothing so uncouth—but he did tense up and jerk his head around, cheeks a little flushed. “Varric,” he said, guiltily. “I… didn’t see you.” 

“Of course not,” said Varric, smiling easily but with an edge that made certain Tristan knew he was correct in his assumption that he was in trouble. “I snuck up on you.”

“Well—well.” Tristan pushed his fingers through his hair, smoothing it out, succeeding only in making it a mess. “That’s not very polite.” 

Now, Varric’s smile couldn’t help but be genuine. He was just plain adorable, sometimes. Also, a sneaky little shit. Right. Tristan was in trouble. Varric schooled his features, stepped forward to shuffle Tristan aside and tell the foot soldier, “Alright, Beon, you know where you’re going with this thing?” He lightly kicked the offending crate. 

“Yes, ser.” Beon looked relieved to be out from under harsh Trevelyan scrutiny. Varric couldn’t blame him. 

“Well, go on, then.”

As the foot soldier shuffled away with the crate, Tristan furrowed his eyebrows, pressed his lips together. “I don’t appreciate you undermining me.” 

Varric handed him his crutch. “I don’t appreciate you being careless.”

_“Careless?”_

“Take it easy, Stormy, save the hellfire for Corypheus.” 

Tristan floundered a moment, fumbling discreetly with the chain which hid his pendant beneath his shirt. “I’m not some old cripple,” he ended up saying, but it landed as more of a blow to himself than to Varric. Said something like a prayer, a plea. They’d both heard the murmurings of the healers—if the spells, the tinctures hadn’t fully healed that leg by now, there was no guarantee it would ever fully heal, and for someone like Tristan…

With a sigh, Varric softened. He wanted to take Tristan’s hand. So he did; reached out and held Tristan’s free hand, pressed it between his own.

“It wouldn’t matter if you were,” said Varric. He didn’t know what he meant, exactly, by it, but the words felt heavy in a way that meant they came from somewhere true, and the crease between Tristan’s eyes smoothed a little for it.

“But what you _are_ is in recovery, so if I catch you trying to haul barrels around on your own again—“

“It was a tiny crate,” said Tristan, rolling his eyes. “You worry—“

“Too much, sure.” They watched as Varric ran his thumb over Tristan’s knuckles. “Humor me for once, will you?” 

“For once?” Tristan sighed, affecting a long-suffering attitude behind smiling eyes. “It seems all I do is humor you. I can’t recall the last time you returned the favor.” 

“How dare you. I humor the masses. I’ll have you know I’m the funniest person I’ve ever met.”

Varric thought Tristan might slap him, but instead he kissed the grin right off his face. Brief, not quite chaste, leaving Varric’s mouth the same cold a warm body felt in the morning after throwing off the covers. 

“On second thought, perhaps you are the funniest person I’ve ever met,” said Tristan—the cool, unaffected, smug way he spoke made Varric want to do… Things to him. Tristan let Varric’s hand slip from his, leaned on his crutch. The tiniest smirk. “Funniest looking.” 

After a stunned beat, Varric laughed darkly, head shaking, eyes glinting. “Oh, you’re gonna regret—“

“Ser Trevelyan,” a voice called, “which cart should we load the ammunition into?”

Tristan breezed away, surprisingly swift with his crutch, leaving Varric standing feeling the strangest combination of irritation and dizzying, gut-wrenching, unbridled love.

“Delivery for you, ser,” said a messenger, dropping a modestly wrapped package into Varric’s hands. 

“Oh—thanks,” said Varric, who’d been mid-stride on his way to the great hall for dinner, and was caught off-guard by the sudden delivery. There was a letter attached to the package. He read the name, raised his eyebrows, stopped, and turned on his heel. “Wait, is this all?”

“No, ser. There’s a crate for you to pick up in the mail room.” 

Varric nodded, calling out a “Thanks, again,” as he hurried into the great hall to find a comfortable seat from which to tear into the letter. 

His eyes scanned the words quickly enough he started to see spots. 

“Hello, Varric, wonderful to see you, hope you’ve had a good day—oh, well, thank you for asking, mine was simply grand,” said Dorian from across the table. Varric didn’t even need to look up to hear the eyes rolling. 

“Good news, I hope?” Josephine coaxed, a not-so-subtle ply for detail.

“Must be, to make such a scene of himself,” Cassandra scoffed. 

“It _is_ good news, yes, Varric?” Theodora asked, voice hopeful, but laced with concern. That finally brought Varric to look up. 

“What?” he said. “Yeah, it’s fine. It’s great, actually. It’s just about—“

Someone bent to kiss his cheek. “So I’m not allowed to overwork myself during the daytime, but you’re allowed to bring letters to the dinner table?” Tristan asked, slipping into his seat beside Varric’s. His crutch was nowhere in sight, and Varric felt a gray hair grow out of his head. 

“That’s not the same, and you know it, Stormy,” he said, quickly folding the letter and slipping it into his pocket. “Me catching up on my mail isn't exactly taxing.”

Tristan hummed, reaching for the small wrapped package that Varric had set beside his plate. Varric brought his hand down on it to stop him. Tristan frowned. Varric smiled. 

“Well, what is it?” asked Tristan.

“Nothing for you to worry about.” Varric slid the package into his lap and picked up his fork. 

He was about two bites into dinner when he realized that there was a distinct lack of the usual chatter. He looked around the table, and found his friends openly staring at him. He blinked. 

“I can’t be that interesting.” 

“Aren’t you two just downright domestic,” Vivienne observed, and it was at that point that Varric realized that most of his staring friends were smiling, too. 

Varric had grown out of blushing a long time ago, but not the uncomfortable wriggling feeling in his stomach that went with it. Days ago, all this scrutiny would’ve caused him to burst into flame and/or rush out of the room. 

Now he smiled, a private smile of his own making, and speared a potato on the end of his fork. 

And conversation moved on, largely to more important matters—they were, after all, preparing to march, and it seemed like the only thing anyone could talk about was strategy, logistics, Big Important Decisions.

Varric, as a rule, stayed out of decision-making as much as possible. He preferred to leave the important shit like that to the big kids, and only step in to look pretty and point and shoot. So far, his survival rate was at one-hundred percent, and he didn’t believe in coincidences. 

So he contented himself to his plate, thinking about when would be the best time to get that crate to his quarters without anyone nosing around his business. 

“—supplies have been requisitioned from the Storm Coast, we’re waiting on their delivery before—“ 

Something brushed lightly against the outer seam of Varric’s thigh. He barely noticed, doodling absently on the back of his envelope while he allowed the political jargon to wash over him.

“Yes, I think that would be the proper course of action,” said Tristan in agreement with some point Josephine had just made. “Cullen, are we still waiting on troops?” 

“Well—“

A touch, feather-light, across Varric’s knee, suspiciously like fingertips. Varric’s eyes darted left, but Tristan’s attention was rapt—if passive, stony—on Cullen’s report, and as Varric’s attention returned to his pen, Tristan posed a question to Thea. So it was just Varric’s imagination. He was told he had an active one. 

No, that was definitely a hand on his knee, warm, solid. Varric’s pen paused mid-scratch and this time he turned his head, but Tristan’s focus was still ostensibly on the Very Important Heroes Only conversation. 

“And we can wait that long?” asked Tristan with that serious little furrow at his brow, and the hand slid slowly up Varric’s thigh. 

Across the table, Thea steepled her fingers with a thoughtful hum. “It’s a matter of which risk we want to take,” she began. 

Tristan’s fingertips ghosted along the inner seam of Varric’s trousers, and Varric wondered pleasantly what the hell he was doing until those fingers brushed against the brown paper wrappings of the package Varric had hidden in his lap. 

Ah. That’s what it was about, then. Well, it took two to play cards. 

Even as Tristan’s hand wrapped triumphantly around the mail, Varric casually slid his free hand into his lap and grabbed Tristan’s wrist in a vice. Tristan stiffened all over in surprise, then forced himself to relax. 

“Sorry, Theodora, could you repeat that last bit? I’m not quite clear on what you mean,” he said, cordially. Varric bit down on a wicked grin, looping some nonsense onto his napkin to make it look like he was most definitely not tracing little shapes into the back of Tristan’s hand with the pad of his forefinger. 

“I see,” said Tristan. “Then I suppose you’re right, we should—hm.” He blinked quickly, as though taken aback by something, maybe the way Varric massaged his thumb into the juncture of Tristan’s wrist and palm. It was amazing how much tension built up unnoticed in people's hands.

Of course, no one knew anything about what was happening beneath the table, so Tristan just looked silly. And he hated looking silly, so the most adorable little blush colored his cheeks. 

“You okay, little prince?” Bull asked, somewhere down the table. Varric caught his eye and winked, and Bull’s chest hummed with deep laughter.

“I’m fine,” said Tristan, giving Varric’s thigh a spiteful pinch. “Thank you. As I was saying…”

Varric flipped Tristan’s hand and traced every line of his palm, and when that was done he traced one cheeky heart. The look Tristan secretly threw his way had more salt in it than the kitchens. Varric raised his eyebrows. Well, if Tristan was going to be rude, he’d just take his leave.

He let Tristan’s hand slip from his, gathered up his things, and stood. “Not that I’m not enjoying the conversation, but I feel like I’ll be of more use in bed,” he announced. A few irritated looks at the interruption, a few laughs at the joke, and one red-eared Trevelyan at his side.

They said goodnight, and Varric ambled his way out of the hall.

Tristan’s desk was in total disarray, so one more thing added to the chaos would hardly be noticeable—besides, it was always best to hide things in plain sight. Varric tossed the small, flat package onto the rubble, shoved a few papers over it, then made himself comfortable on the sofa by the fire. The fire was warm, just the right side of stifling, and Varric thought there’d be no harm closing his eyes, just for a second, and pretending breathing came easily to him. 

He woke up to uneven footsteps limping up the stairs and, as he blinked sleep from his eyes, the door creaking open. For a while, Tristan said nothing, just gave Varric the barest of angry glances before setting about getting ready for bed. His crutch was back (thank Andraste), but only briefly, as Tristan propped it against the wall by the door and limped stubbornly about the room, removing his long blue coat and hanging it in the closet, washing his face in the basin by the mirror in the corner, finally meeting eyes with Varric in the mirror and turning around with the most adorable little frown. 

“I can’t believe you,” Tristan announced. Varric raised his eyebrows.

“I haven’t even said anything.” 

“You’ve been insufferable all day.” 

“Oh, _I’ve_ been insufferable.” 

Tristan paused mid drying his face. “Is that supposed to mean anything?” 

“You should hear what the foot soldiers were saying about you after this morning.”

With a huff, Tristan turned back to the mirror under the pretense of trying to tame a cowlick. “I don’t care what anyone says about me.” 

“No?”

Tristan pretended not to hear. Varric settled back on the sofa, crossed his arms over his chest, hummed, and began, in his Storytelling Voice, “Ser Tristan Trevelyan, second son of House Trevelyan, was known throughout the land for the massive stick up his ass—“

Tristan whirled. “ _Varric Tethras_ —“ 

“—and his amazing ability to never smile, even in the midst of his incredibly charming and handsome dwarven companion.” 

_Thump_. 

“…He was also known for his horrible aim.” 

Tristan sat on the bed facing away from Varric, scowling while he unlaced his boots. 

“But,” Varric went on, looking up at the decorated ceiling. “As I said, those things were only what he was known throughout the land for. Those who numbered among his friends—few, but close—knew otherwise.” 

Another thump, as Tristan’s boot hit the floor. He moved on to the other one, the one on his bad leg, which gave him some trouble—he cursed a few times under his breath. Varric toyed with the comb Tristan had thrown at him. 

“The truth of it was,” he said, "Ser Trevelyan did smile—only small, sparingly, in secret. You just had to know how to look for it. For instance, he rarely smiled with his mouth. You had a better shot looking for it in his eyes—and what beautiful eyes. A deep, bright blue, like a storm at sea.” 

That, Tristan turned his head for, but only for a moment before he remembered he was mad and went back to his laces.

“That said, on occasion, he has been known to really smile, with all his teeth and everything. And legend tells that once—just once—Ser Trevelyan laughed.” 

“I’ve laughed more than _once_.” 

“—and that single laugh turned the heart of every man who heard it.”

“You’re being silly.” Even with his face turned away, Varric could see a red flush at the tips of Tristan’s ears.

“And to speak of hearts, Ser Trevelyan’s was pure and true, despite his prickly, stone-like exterior.”

“ _Stone-_ like?”

“Marble-esque,” Varric amended, and Tristan settled. Varric had given up looking at the ceiling, much preferring to stare at the curve of Tristan’s back, the soft slope of his neck. 

“And the fact that he was loathe to bare that heart didn’t matter, because for anyone who cared to look, it was right there, clear as a pool of summer rain.” 

That was a pretty good line, actually, Varric thought. Maybe he should write that down. 

He realized that in the moment he’d gone silent, Tristan had turned to look at him over his shoulder. 

“Is that the end?” he asked, shy but hopeful. Varric laughed. 

“Thought you didn’t care what anyone said about you.” 

“There are… a few exceptions.”

Varric stood, crossed the room to sit beside Tristan on the corner of the bed, put a hand on Tristan’s shoulder and then kissed the place below his thumb, once, helpless to stop himself. “Where was I?” he wondered. 

“My heart.” 

“Right. His heart was about as big as a fist, and had lived for most of his life somewhere in the vicinity of his ribs—“

“Varric,” Tristan pouted.

“—and it had the rare but fortunate condition of being made of gold, which made him kind, and a good friend, and even, at times, a hero. But the best thing of all about that heart was that it kept him alive. Even when all else failed, and it seemed like it might not.”

Tristan leaned into Varric and took his hand. Varric traced his palm again, this time so he had an excuse to look at something besides Tristan’s face. He was afraid he’d lose his nerve.

“Because the truth is, the world needs people like Ser Trevelyan alive in it, and these days, it seems like it’s burning through them faster than it can spit them out. But more importantly than whatever the world needs, there’s—there’s one person in particular who needs Trevelyan alive. Pretty damn badly. One person who’s—not sure what the hell he’d do with himself if he lost—if anything happened to—if—“ 

Varric was saved from having to finish by a gentle mouth on his. He closed his eyes and sighed, and Tristan pulled away to rest their foreheads together, taking both of Varric’s hands and holding them in their laps.

“I’m sorry for worrying you,” Tristan said. “I don’t do it on purpose.”

“I know.”

Tristan pressed another kiss to his mouth. “I wish I could tell you you didn’t have to.”

“Well, don’t do that. Then I wouldn’t have anything to do with myself.”

A hum. Another kiss. More words, this time said against Varric’s lips—“Nothing? Nothing at all?”

“I’m open to suggestions.”

“Don’t be charming. You took off your shoes before I got here.” 

There was plenty for Varric to say to that—really, the guy left it wide open—but for once Varric forewent the snark to roll his eyes and say, “Maker’s breath, would you shut up about the shoes thing already?” and pull Tristan in with a hand on the back of his neck. 

It had been a long time since they’d been able to kiss like this; slow, unhurried, alone. Tristan had been so busy, and Varric busy helping other people be busy—even before Tristan’s accident, the time they’d managed together could only be scraped into all of one moment, and after it, between recovering and gearing up to launch a full-scale war, well. 

Varric had missed this. He’d missed how easily Tristan opened up for him when it was just the two of them, how he would smile against Varric’s mouth when they parted for air, how his breath would come in short, happy bursts against Varric’s cheek. He’d missed brushing his thumb over the little mole by Tristan’s eye, missed pushing back stray black curls that looped over Tristan’s forehead. He’d missed having his lip bitten. He’d missed liking it. 

Simply put, he’d missed everything. 

They parted, rested their foreheads together, and Varric kept his palm warm on the back of Tristan’s neck. “I—“ he started.

“I missed you,” said Tristan, eyes closed, quiet. 

“Missed me?” said Varric, even though he’d been about to say the same damn thing. “I’ve been here the whole time.”

“I know what I said.” 

Varric laughed, kissed the answering smile that touched the corner of Tristan’s mouth. “ _I missed you,_ he says,” he scoffed, curling a hand around Tristan’s hip, slipped his fingertips beneath his shirt. “Like he’s not the one always going off and finding ways to almost get himself killed.”

“I—“ Tristan tensed, grabbing Varric’s wrist. “Wait.” 

Varric’s hands retreated. “What’s wrong?” 

“I just remembered I…“ Tristan turned red and ducked his head to the side, chewing the inside of his lip.

“Hey,” Varric soothed. “Talk to me, Stormy.” 

“I just… You. You haven’t seen me, since I—since—“ 

“Slow down, deep breaths, alright?”

Tristan pulled in one long breath, closed his eyes, exhaled. 

“Better?” 

He nodded. “Yes.” 

“What are you worried about?” 

Tristan grimaced at his knees. “You haven’t seen me since I—since the. You know.” 

“Since you got better,” Varric supplied. Tristan nodded again. Varric waited for him to elaborate, and when he didn’t, gently nudged his arm. “What’s that got to do with anything?” 

“It’s just—I have—“ Tristan made a vague claw motion across his own chest. Varric made a face, then understood. 

“Scars?” 

Bright red returned to Tristan’s face and ears, but not the cute kind that Varric liked—this wasn’t embarrassment, it was shame. The thought of Tristan being ashamed of anything made something growl in Varric’s heart, but he reined it in. 

“You’ve always had scars, baby,” he pointed out, and knew it was really bad because the pet name didn’t even come close to smoothing out the furrow in his brow.

“I know that, but those are just little, it’s—different.” 

“Different how?” 

Tristan stared at his knees. 

“Hey, look at me,” Varric said, reaching to cup Tristan’s cheek. Tristan allowed his head to be turned, but wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Tristan.” 

Begrudgingly, Tristan finally looked at him. 

“You can’t honestly think I care about a few scars.” 

“You say that, but you haven’t—“

“They healed, didn’t they?” 

Tristan blinked, clearly not having expected that. “Well, yes, that’s sort of the point of sc—What are you doing?” 

Varric had taken hold of the thin chain around Tristan’s neck and now held the pendant between them. He’d given it back as soon as Tristan had been lucid enough to realize it was missing and start freaking out, but even for that single day in-between, the calm, warm glow of the little necklace had eased the knots in Varric’s stomach. 

Even now, the glow put an easy feeling in the air. 

“You see this?” Varric asked. 

“Yes,” said Tristan, suspiciously. 

“You know what it means?” 

“Of course I—“

“It means you’re alive.” 

Tristan’s breath hitched. He wet his lips, staring at the pendant resting in Varric’s palm. “Varric—“

“That’s all I care about. Who gives a shit about if you have scars? A scar means you survived it.” 

Tristan put his hand over Varric’s on his cheek. “Varric,” he said, again, and this time he looked like he might cry, and Varric had to avoid that at all costs, so he closed his fingers around the pendant and leaned in to give him a kiss—a storybook kiss, and not the kind of storybooks Varric wrote. The kind you read when you were young, that made you think _yes, that,_ that _is the kiss I want to have._

True love’s kiss. Or something like that. 

It lasted as long as it took for Tristan to fist his hands in Varric’s hair and open his mouth. And then it was hands everywhere, touching, holding, and everything needed to be more, closer, _that—_

Tristan fell back on the mattress and pulled Varric down on top of him, pulling his legs up to lie more comfortably on the bed and—“Ouch!”

“Shit, what happened?”

Tristan grimaced. “Nothing, it’s fine. I just forgot—my leg.” They sat up so Tristan could lift his injured leg onto the mattress, propping it on a pillow Varric provided. He stared at it with a far-off, sad expression, so Varric distracted him by smoothing a hand over his chest and gently pushing him back onto his back. He kissed his cheek, mouthed along his jaw, nipped at his throat and got a little gasp for it. 

He kissed Tristan’s collarbone. The last slip of skin exposed at his chest where the laces of his shirt were undone. Varric’s hands, where they’d been holding Tristan’s hips, slid towards them hem of his shirt, and Varric looked up to make eye contact. “Can I?” 

Tristan’s face was hot, eyes hooded, mouth kiss-swollen and slightly open. Varric wanted to touch him so badly he thought he might die from it. “Yes,” Tristan said. He sat up and helped Varric lift his shirt over his head before lying down again, propped on the pillows. 

Two long, pale, jagged lines jutted diagonally across Tristan’s chest, from near his shoulder to the bottom of the opposite ribcage. 

Varric stared. 

Tristan cleared his throat. “I told you,” he said, quietly. Varric shook his head, though he was unable to say anything—he was possessed by the memory of two open gashes, of blood everywhere, of skin pale as a sheet, of cold dread. 

He reached out and drew his fingertips along one of the scars. Tristan shivered. Varric finally tore his eyes away to look at him. 

“You’re alive,” he said, relief soaking him to the bone. A smile cracked Tristan’s mouth. He was relieved, too.

“Last I checked.” 

Varric laid his hands on Tristan’s sides and bent down to kiss all along each scar—slow, reverent. And when that was done, he kissed one of the old, smaller scars, one on his hip—found one on his shoulder, his forearm. Held Tristan’s hand to his lips, kissed a scar on his knuckle while he watched Tristan’s pupils go wide. 

Still holding his gaze, took two of Tristan’s fingers and slid them into his mouth. 

Tristan’s mouth fell open on a moan he couldn’t stifle. He really did have a thing about hands, didn’t he. Varric swirled his tongue around his fingertips as he used his grip on Tristan’s wrist to push them all the way back to his throat, then slowly slide them back out. In, out, in. Fucking his own mouth with Tristan’s fingers, all while Tristan’s breath quickened and little punched-out whines kept falling from his lips until finally he wrenched his hand away, pulled Varric down to shove his tongue down his throat, like he wanted to taste himself inside Varric’s mouth and _fuck, that was hot, fuck fuck—_

“Varric,” said Tristan against his mouth, eyes hooded. “I want you to fuck me.” 

_Yes, please!_ said Varric’s monkey brain, but. “Your leg—“

“It’s fine.” 

“You hurt yourself _lying down_ , Tristan.” 

“I’d just forgotten about it and moved it the wrong way and it surprised me, that’s all. It’s fine, I promise. We just need to be careful and not move it the wrong way, just—please.” Tristan placed a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses down Varric’s throat, rising between each to say, “Please. Varric. I want you so bad. _Please_. I can’t _stand_ it—“

At the end of the day, Varric was only so strong. 

“Okay, okay,” he said, and put a hand on Tristan’s chest to push him back, like he was begrudging this _actual_ wet dream begging him for his dick. What had this world come to? “But you have to tell me if it’s too much or it hurts, and we’ll stop—or find something else to do. Okay?”

Tristan rolled his eyes. “ _Yes_ , okay, I will. You sound like B—“ His eyes widened and his mouth snapped shut. Varric’s eyes went dark.

“What was that?”

“Um.”

“I sound like who, Tristan.”

“I just meant—“

Varric knew, of course, that there was nothing to worry about. Bull and Tristan were best friends, and whatever may have happened between them, it would’ve been a long time ago, before Tristan and Varric were—what they were. Varric trusted both of them with his life. They’d never do anything to betray that. 

With that said, Varric couldn’t help the wave of possessive anger coursing through him as he pinned Tristan’s arms over his head and leaned down to growl into his ear, “Would you prefer it was Bull here touching you?” 

He felt a shiver run all the way through Tristan. “No, ser,” Tristan choked, and went red all over, clearly having added the latter by accident. Well, _that_ was something to explore another time. 

“Are you sure?” Varric asked, releasing one of Tristan’s wrists to draw that hand down his stomach. “You don’t want his tongue on you? Your fingers in his fucking mouth?” 

“Uh-uh,” said Tristan, shaking his head fervently, eyes big as suns. “No, Varric, please—only—“

“You don’t want him to touch you like this?” asked Varric, as his hand went down Tristan’s pants and cupped him through his small-clothes. 

It was his first touch there all night, and Tristan moaned around his next words—“ _No,_ only you, Varric, only want you, want you so much please, _please_ , just—“

Varric made short work of Tristan’s laces and helped him kick off his pants, making sure to be careful of his leg, before parting Tristan’s knees, licking a line up the inside of his thigh then taking one of his balls into his mouth. Tristan first fisted his hands in his own hair, then realized he could do the same to Varric’s hair, then grabbed for one of Varric’s hands and linked their fingers together and squeezed. 

It was strangely intimate—well, they were having sex, so obviously everything was intimate, but this was—it made Varric’s heart flip in his chest. 

He squeezed Tristan’s hand back, then used his free hand to guide Tristan’s cock into his mouth. 

If dicks could be pretty, Varric couldn’t explain it, but Tristan’s was. Maybe it was just that everything about him was pretty—right down to the sounds he made as Varric sucked him off. Like fucking birds bursting out of his lungs, of all shapes and sizes and colors, some small and soft and others—like when Varric wrapped his tongue around the head and and hollowed his cheeks—big and bright and _loud_. 

With his free hand and the fluids dripping down there, Varric rolled Tristan’s balls between his fingers, then slid behind them past his perineum to press teasingly against his hole. 

Varric nearly gagged as Tristan’s hips jerked up on a shout. He pulled off with a wet _pop_. 

“Sorry,” Tristan gasped. “Sorry. Just—please, _please—_ “

Didn’t have to tell Varric twice. He sat up. “Where’s your. Er.” 

“Top drawer, nightstand.” 

Varric gave Tristan’s hand one last squeeze before he hopped up to shuck off his clothes and dig around in the nightstand. By the time he found it, Tristan had already wrapped a hand around himself, his mouth a perfect pink _O_.

The sight had Varric frozen to the spot, his own mouth falling open a little as he watched, hypnotized. He may have drooled. He would deny it until he died—probably of Tristan-related heart failure. 

_“Varric,”_ Tristan whined, and he probably had the cutest puppy-dog eyes, too, but Varric wouldn’t know, too busy watching a bead of precum drip over Tristan’s thumb. “What are you _doing?”_

Jumpstarted into action, Varric threw himself back on the bed, unstoppering the bottle of lube and dumping a generous amount onto his fingers. He paused, eyes going to the angry red scarring over Tristan’s knee—not quite healed like the ones on his chest. “Are you okay?” he asked. “Do you need anything?” 

Tristan had already shoved a pillow under his hips, and he now looked down waspishly at Varric. “Yes,” he said. “I need you to put your fingers in me.” 

Again, any instances of drooling would forever be vehemently denied. 

Varric pushed up Tristan’s good knee so his foot was flat on the bed to make himself room between Tristan’s legs, stroked the outside of his thigh while he circled his index finger around Tristan’s hole until he relaxed enough that Varric could slowly, carefully start to slide it inside. 

When he was pressed in up to his knuckles, he worried something was wrong, because Tristan had gone silent. Then a low groan rumbled out of his chest, and Tristan rocked against him. Still, Varric took it slowly, at first out of concern, and then because he liked teasing Tristan into a desperate, writhing mess with only his fingers. 

Only when Tristan kicked at Varric’s side did he give him another one, slowly sinking them in, then curling them on the way out and reveling in the sound of Tristan moaning his name. He would never get used to that sound. Ever. 

Sloppy, wet sounds filled the air, too, which would’ve been disgusting if Varric didn’t know they were made by Tristan rocking into his hand, again, again, again, all while Varric searched for just the right—

_“Varric!”_

Found it. Tristan’s hands buried themself in his hair and Varric grinned, finding that spot again. “There, huh?” he asked, casual, as though he wasn’t now three fingers deep in Tristan’s ass. 

Tristan pawed at Varric’s head and honest-to-Maker gurgled at him. Varric circled that spot, then _pressed_ , and Tristan’s hips shot off the bed, trying to fuck into something that wasn’t there, and as he dropped back down he panted _“Alright,_ I’m ready. _Now._ _Fuck—“_

Varric pulled his fingers out and wiped them on the sheets, searching around for the bottle while Tristan huffed and puffed about his loss. 

“Soon, baby, soon,” Varric soothed, closing his eyes and catching his breath at the first pull of his own hand spreading slick over his cock. He hadn’t touched himself all night—or, if he was being honest, in a while—and admittedly hadn’t fucked anyone in an embarrassing amount of time, so he wasn’t sure how long he was going to last. Lucky for him, Tristan looked a stiff wind away from blowing his own load, too. 

One hand holding his dick, Varric used the other to swipe the pad of his thumb over Tristan’s lips. “You ready?” 

Tristan strained his head up to kiss him. “Yes, please,” he said, then, “Please, _please_ —“

And Varric guided himself to Tristan’s entrance, slowly sinking inside and— _“Fuck,_ Andraste, you’re so tight.” 

“Hhhhrngh,” said Tristan, head thrown back. 

Arms braced on either side of Tristan, Varric bottomed out with a ragged sigh, head bent forward for a second to get a grip on himself. He was a grown fucking man, and he was not going to come from ten seconds balls-deep in an angel. Deep breath. He looked up at Tristan’s face.

“Okay?” he asked. 

Tristan’s eyes were closed. “Just give me—a few seconds. I haven’t—“ 

“ _Please_ do not tell me right now that you’ve never done this before.” 

That made Tristan laugh, which apart from being adorable, jostled Varric inside of him in a way that made them both moan through gritted teeth. “No,” said Tristan. “It’s just been—a while.” 

“Been a while for me, too, Stormy,” Varric grunted, resting his forehead on Tristan’s shoulder.

“Really?”

Varric looked up because he could _hear_ the smile on Tristan’s face, and sure enough there it was—big and bright and _fuuck_. Varric kissed his chin, laughing. “Who the hell do you think I’m out here fucking?” 

“I don’t know, I just thought— _guh_.” Tristan’s mouth went slack after he experimentally rocked his hips. “You’re, you know. A charming, sexy rogue, and—and what have you, so—“

“Sexy, hm?” Varric purred, moving his hips in the tiniest of circles. Tristan’s tongue darted out to wet his lips.

“Don’t—act surprised I find y-you—ah—sexy when your d-dick is in…side… _hhhhhha._ ”

“You’re way too coherent right now,” Varric decided, and Tristan’s eyes flashed.

“Then do something about it,” he demanded, and without further ado, Varric pulled out and slammed back home, and Tristan _keened_ , throwing an arm over his head and gripping the sheets.

Varric wondered how many times he could make that sound before he came. He wondered if he’d be able to keep count. “For the record,” he said into Tristan’s ear. Slowly out, slowly in. “There’s nobody else. Just you.” He kissed his chest on another thrust, right beside his pendant. “Only you.” 

Tristan mumbled something incoherent, gripping Varric’s shoulders and using them to leverage himself to push back against him. 

“What was that?”

Tristan’s eyes, heavy-lidded and dark, didn’t meet Varric’s only because they were staring at his mouth. “You’re _mine,”_ he purred, and Varric could feel it in his chest where it was pressed against Tristan’s, and it felt like sparklers, like the click of a trigger, and suddenly the pace was relentless, each thrust sending the most beautiful little noises dripping from Tristan’s mouth:

“ _Ah, ah, ah, ah—Varric—ah—st—hhuuuuuuhhhhhstop—_ stopStop!”

Varric’s heart flew into his mouth and he dragged himself to a halt, cradling Tristan’s face in his hands. “Shit, did I hurt you?”

“No, no, you didn’t hurt me I just—“

As Varric started to pull out, Tristan grabbed his hips like a vice and held him still, staring right into his eyes. “I want to ride you.” 

Varric swallowed a lump in his throat. “Yeah?” he asked, voice low and suddenly hoarse. “You want that, baby?”

Tristan nodded. Varric held his face, then frowned. “We have to be careful about your leg.”

“Do you want me in your lap or not?”

“You—“ Varric huffed a laugh as he pulled out and helped Tristan maneuver around on the bed. “Are the most ridiculous person I know.”

“That,” said Tristan, finding he could straddle Varric’s lap provided that his injured leg hung over the side of the bed instead of bending underneath him, “cannot possibly be true. You know— _mmm_.” He reached under him and guided Varric’s cock back in, slowly sinking down. _“Far_ too many people.”

Tristan had been right. It was better like this. Deeper. Without the full strength of both his legs under him, Varric had to help lift him up and down, but once they got going again, the strain was worth it, and the view—laying back, Varric could see everything; the blissed-out blue of his hooded eyes, the beautiful red flush that colored Tristan from face to chest, the way his pretty cock bounced against his stomach, leaving little wet spots there. Varric sacrificed one of his hands to stroke him off in time with the slap of skin on skin, and Tristan’s teeth showed in a lazy, content little grin that made Varric want to do disgusting things to his mouth.

But of all there was to look at, Varric found himself transfixed on one thing: the soft glowing pendant as it swung back and forth against the center of Tristan’s chest. _Alive._

“Andraste above,” Varric breathed. “I don’t know why I got so lucky. You’re perfect, baby, you’re _perfect_.”

Tristan tipped his head to the side and preened, happy little sounds still falling from his lips, perfect, beautiful, kissed lips.

“You could have anyone you wanted. _Anyone_. And you want me. I get to have this, you so good and pretty for me bouncing on my cock. You’ve ruined me for anyone else, you know. I hope you never get sick of me. I’ll never get sick of you. Only want you, baby.”

“Say—“ Tristan shuddered at a particularly good thrust. “Say it again.” 

Varric swirled his thumb around the head of his dick. “Only want you,” he moaned.

“N-no— _ohhhh_ ,” said Tristan. “What you said—before. When you held my h-h- _hand_. Beside the bed.”

When Varric realized what he was talking about, he slowed his thrusts from their frantic, driving pace to a slow, hard slide in and out. His heart crawled into his throat. Tristan remembered that? Varric hadn’t even thought he’d been able to hear. Hell, he’d thought he was _dying_.

Varric wet his lips, and said, “I love you.” 

Tristan closed his eyes and smiled, laid one hand over the one Varric used to stroke him off. 

Once he said it, it was like he couldn’t stop. “I love you.” Breathless. _“I love you.”_

Tristan’s eyes snapped open and with a superhuman strength, he lifted himself up and slammed back down once, twice, three times, and the third time, as Varric came inside him with a moan like a sob, Tristan leaned down and said, “I love you, too,” and came over their joined fists.

The first thing Varric did was pull Tristan down into his arms and hold his head against his chest, stroking his hair and burying his face in the top of his head. The room was silent except for their breath, winded and labored, but slowly evening out. 

They needed to get cleaned up, but Varric couldn’t bring himself to let go. He could stay like this forever. “I love you,” he whispered again, to the quiet room, low and fierce, and felt Tristan smile against his chest. 

“Hey.” 

Sunlight streamed through the open curtains across the room, some in colored spots, others just plain bright sun. A patch of rosy pink dotted Tristan’s sleeping shoulder, a stripe of gold his face—mouth open, cheek sticking to the pillow.

Varric leaned over and shook him. “Tristan,” he cooed. “Wakey, wakey.” 

“Ugh,” Tristan grunted, swatting at him and tugging the blanket higher against the light. “F’ckff.” 

“Tristan. Come on, I have something for you.” 

Slowly, sleepy blue eyes peeked out above the blanket, blinking curiously. Varric took the opportunity to plant a loud, wet kiss on his forehead which sent him reeling back, aghast. _Now_ he was awake. 

“You—what— _Varric!”_ A pillow flew threw the air and Varric caught it in his chest, laughing. “Ass.” 

“My humblest apologies, Stormy,” said Varric, though it was a little undermined by the shit-eating grin on his face. Tristan rolled his eyes and rolled over. “Wait, come back, that wasn’t what I was going to give you.” 

“I’m going to kill you.” 

“Whatever you want. After this?” 

At length, Tristan rolled back over, glaring. Varric shuffled on his feet, suddenly nervous, which only led Tristan to eye him up and down suspiciously. 

“You’re already dressed?” he asked. “What time is it?” 

“It’s morning,” Varric assured him, and it was true… technically. “I woke up earlier and couldn’t go back to sleep.” 

Tristan didn’t need to know that several hundred people had already tried knocking down the door, and Varric had rudely and unapologetically sent them away. Tristan had needed the rest. Apart from certain night-time activities, he’d woken up and insisted they take a very long bath in the middle of the night. 

Varric sat on the edge of the bed and held out the small brown package he’d hidden on the desk the night before. “Here,” he said. “It’s for you.” 

For a second, Tristan just blinked at the package, then his eyes widened and recognition and he snatched it away. Then, abashed, he made an effort to slowly and carefully unwrap the paper. 

It took all of Varric’s willpower not to reach over and tear the paper off himself. He tapped his hands restlessly on his legs until Tristan reached over and took one of them in his own, squeezed his fingers. 

Tristan pushed aside the paper and held up the book. He raised his eyebrows. “A book,” he said, nonplussed, and Varric’s stomach dropped a little. He squinted at the cover. _“Sky Full of Song,”_ he read, “By—Varric Tethras.” He looked up. “Your book?”

“Hot off the presses, Varric Tethras’s newest saga, on shelves wherever you find your books.” The line got sort of stuck in Varric’s throat. He cleared it. “Open it.” 

Smiling obligingly, Tristan flipped through the first few pages, until Varric couldn’t take it anymore and reached over to flip back to the dedication. Tristan’s eyes scanned it. 

_To my heart. Hope you like this one, Stormy. You’re in it._

Tristan’s head shot up, lips parted in disbelief. “You wrote this for me?” 

Varric smiled, heart in his mouth. “Before I even knew I was doing it.”

“When—“

“This is what I’ve been working on for the last year.” 

Tristan ran his finger over the print. “I had no idea,” he said, and Varric snorted.

“Well, you didn’t make it easy, but I wanted it to be a surprise. And I—“ He bit the inside of his cheek, glanced away. “To be honest, I was nervous about telling you.”

Tristan squeezed his hand again. “You, nervous?” he laughed, a confused little wrinkle between his eyebrows. “Why?”

“Because it’s you,” said Varric. “In case you didn’t notice, I’m sorta crazy about you. You make me feel like I’m going to die.”

“Wow,” said Tristan, dryly. “I’m truly flattered.”

“Shit, I meant—“

Tristan stopped him from digging himself deeper by leaning up and tugging him into a soft, chaste kiss, smiling against his mouth. “Varric,” he said, “I love it. It’s the best thing anyone’s ever given me.” 

“Really?”

With a nod, Tristan made a happy little sigh and tucked himself right into Varric’s side, blankets and all, closing his eyes. “Yes,” he said. “Now let’s go back to sleep.” 

Varric dragged his fingers through the soft tangle of Tristan’s hair, and was tempted to give in, but his pesky conscience got in the way. “I would love to, baby,” he said, “but when I said it was morning earlier, I may have been… slightly exaggerating.”

“Mm?”

“…It’s almost noon.” 

Tristan gasped and shot up. “ _Almost noon?”_ He threw off the blankets and climbed over Varric, wincing at the ache in his bad leg and… other places, but not letting it stop him from getting up and rushing to the wash basin to splash water on his face and clean his teeth. “Maker, I’m going to be late,” he fretted, searching around frantically for clean clothes. “The war table meeting starts any minute—“

As much as Varric enjoyed watching Tristan wander around the room naked, he stood up and wordlessly handed Tristan a stack of folded clothes he’d gathered while he slept. Tristan accepted them with a kiss on his forehead, before getting dressed faster than Varric could blink. 

“Okay.” Tristan closed his eyes, took a short, sharp breath. Opened them. “I have to go.”

Varric crossed his arms. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” 

Tristan paused in the doorway, backtracked to give Varric one last kiss. “I’ll see you later.” 

“Nice try, but I meant your crutch.” 

“I love you!” Tristan called over his shoulder, already halfway down the hall. Varric leaned on the doorframe and heaved a fond, exasperated sigh. 

“Love you, too,” he said, and it was the easiest thing he’d ever done. 

_Dear Varric!_

_It’s so beautiful where we are. It hardly feels like there are wars going on all over the place. I know it’s not right to ignore things like that happening, but I think it’s okay, for now. It has been a long few years, and we need a break. Fenris especially. I took us here for him. He is very mad at you, you know, but I don’t think he really is. I think he is mad at Hawke, but not really. Really, I think he is mad at himself._

_He seems to like it here. As much as Fenris likes anything, the big grump._

_I know it has been too long since I’ve written you. I hope you are doing well. I know you miss Hawke—we all do, but. You know what I mean. I just know that, like you said, he wouldn’t have had it any other way, and he was not happy to go, but he wasn’t sad, either. I told Fenris that’s how we should try to feel, too. Not happy, but not sad, either. Hawke wouldn’t want us to be sad. He’d make that big frowny face at us and try to drown us in tea._

_Anyway, I know you are busy, but I wanted to let you know that we are okay, and safe. Maybe, when you finish killing Corypheus again, you can come visit us! I would like that. Fenris, too. Well… He would after a few hours. Don’t worry, I won’t let him do anything to you. We should all come—the others, too! We could do something for Hawke. I miss us being together. We’re a family, you know._

_Good luck, and be safe. I hope we see each other very soon._

_All my love,_

_Merrill_

The dawn of the battle, Varric didn’t want to let Tristan leave. They were curled in their tent, and the first sliver of light rose over the horizon, slipping through the canvas, and chill morning air filled their lungs and Tristan started to rise to get ready to lead the army—and didn’t that still feel so strange, so fucking terrifying—and Varric’s arms tightened around him of their own accord and held him fast, eyes squeezed shut like maybe if he couldn’t see it, the light would go away. 

“Varric…” Tristan whispered. 

“Don’t go,” said Varric, into his chest. “Let someone else do the heavy lifting, for once.”

“It has to be me.” 

“What if something happens to you?” 

“We have to trust that the Maker is kind.”

“Your leg—“

“Is as healed as it’s going to get.” 

“Can’t you just say you forgot you’d already made plans? Tell them you’re sick. Say—“

Tristan stroked his hair. “You’re funny.” 

“I’m serious.” 

Tristan pressed his face into the top of Varric’s head. “No,” he said. “You’re not.” He let Varric hold him for a while, pretend there wasn’t anything to be done, no wars to be fought today. But there was, and there were. “We have to get up.” 

They dressed for war in silence. 

Outside, the breach in the sky cast a green glow over everything. Looking at it, it was easy to feel small, hopeless. Like they’d lost, already. 

But then, Varric looked around at all the people he was lucky to call his friends, standing ready in full battle regalia, and thought that they could damn well do anything. 

After squeezing Varric’s hand, Tristan took his place beside Theodora. He allowed himself only a second to worry about not kissing him, one last time. There would be other times. A thousand others. 

Theodora shared a look with her brother, then with the inner circle gathered around her, waiting. Her friends. Her family. Today, she would ask so much of them—ask them to give their lives, if they had to. And hopefully it wouldn’t come to that, but if it did, they would give them. Freely. Happily. 

This was it, wasn’t it. The big one.

The Inquisitor’s solemn expression cracked into a grin. 

“Well?” she said, hefting her staff. “Who’s ready to kick some ass?”

And they did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, thank you for your kudos, comments, and love! you guys rock. epilogue very soon (it feels silly to wait a full week when it's just a fun little thing).


	7. Epilogue

One look at the blue seal on his letter, and the gatekeeper let Varric through without a word. 

His horse plodded up a cobbled road leading to a huge, beautiful manor at the end. It was something straight out of a painting, all white stone and blue banners and sprawling gardens. Varric couldn’t imagine living here. Growing up here. He shuddered, and urged his horse to go a little faster. 

The inside was even more nerve-wracking than the out, and Varric clasped his hands behind his back as he waited in the foyer, afraid he might accidentally touch something and have to run off a pack of pedigree mabari, or something. It had happened before. What the fuck was he doing here? He was the stupidest man alive (someone had to be). Why the hell was he doing this?

There was a huge painting on the wall above the mantel. An older couple, a man Varric recognized as a younger Teddy, and two teenagers who could only be Theodora and Tristan. Tristan was smiling, but it was obvious the painter had added it in themself. It was so unlike the real thing that Varric laughed out loud, and stopped freaking out. He knew exactly why he was here. 

The footman _(footman)_ put his head back in the door, looked Varric up and down with bemusement. “Lady Trevelyan will see you,” he said, and led Varric to a parlor deep within the house where a beautiful, golden-haired woman played with a matching toddler. 

In the doorway, the footman announced, “Ser Varric Tethras, my lady,” and Lady Trevelyan looked up in delight, handing off a cloth doll to the little girl and standing with equal parts regal grace and carefree haste. 

“Ser Tethras!” she said, the skirts of her long dress swishing as she crossed the room to take his hands in hers, comfortably as though they were old friends. “It’s an honor to welcome you in this house. I’ll admit, I almost didn’t believe it when Tomas said you were here. Please excuse my giddiness.” 

“The honor is all mine, Lady Trevelyan,” said Varric with his most charming smile, kissing her hands before letting them go. “This is—“ He huffed out a laugh, looking around at the extravagant room. “Quite a place to call home.” 

She smiled. “Please, have a seat,” she said, guiding him into the room where there were a number of comfortable, expensive looking places to sit. She returned to an armchair near the toddler, whom she poked on the nose as she sat. “Thalia, say hello to Ser Tethras.” 

The toddler stared him down. Despite her golden hair, her eyes were definitely all Trevelyan. Varric smiled awkwardly at the child, then sat on the sofa. Lady Trevelyan laughed. 

“Sorry, she takes too much after her father.” 

“It’s alright,” said Varric. “And… where is Lord Trevelyan?” 

“A question I often find myself asking, as well. He’s been working on a treatise for the past few weeks. I rarely see him outside of his study.” 

“Ah. I see it runs in the family. Tris—er. Ser Trevelyan is the same way.” 

Lady Trevelyan’s eyes sparkled, a knowing smile at her lips. “How is he? It’s been too long since I’ve seen him—or Thea.” 

“She’s been good. Busy. I guess that’s what she gets for agreeing to run the Inquisition, though.” 

“And Tristan?” she prompted, leaning in a little. 

“He’s—“ Was it hot in here? “He’s well. Very well. Ever since his leg healed enough to ride, we’ve been—he’s been all over the country, do-gooding and whatever else Theodora can find for him.” 

“I’m happy to hear it. You two travel together often, then?” 

Varric swallowed. “Yes, my lady. When we can. That’s actually—“ Okay, this was ridiculous. He was being ridiculous. He cleared his throat, expelled all tension from his body, and went for it. “That’s what I’m here to talk about. I’d hoped to speak to you and your husband both about it, but to be honest, I really can’t wait any more, so the truth is—“ Deep breath. 

“I’m crazy about your brother-in-law, and I want to marry him, if he’ll have me. I’m here to ask for your family’s blessing.” 

Lady Trevelyan’s smile could’ve lit up the ballroom at the Winter Palace, and Varric just noticed an open copy of _Sky Full of Song_ on the table beside her chair.

“We can give you more than that,” she said, standing up and scooping her child into her arms. “Come with me.” 

Even in this mist, with rain dripping down the front of Varric’s hood into his eyes, the broad shape of Iron Bull shielding his eyes to the horizon was unmistakable. Varric, soaked to the bone, raised a weary hand in greeting as he approached the Inquisition camp. 

“Shit, dwarf,” Bull said, with a low whistle. “You look like you got here the long way.” He indicated the sea raging below the cliff, and Varric laughed tiredly as he dismounted and handed his reins off to the requisitions officer. 

“You sure know how to make someone feel welcome, Tiny,” he said, sluicing water off his sleeves. He shook himself, then looked around. “Where is he?” 

“The little prince is down by the water,” Bull rumbled. “He’s not happy with you.” 

Varric grimaced. “Can’t blame him. I’ll admit, this wasn’t my most well-thought-out scheme.” 

“Where did you run off to?”

“Ostwick.” 

Bull’s bark of laughter echoed through the valley. “An impromptu, dead-of-night solo trip to Ostwick? Nice weather this time of year, is it?” 

“Better than this place, at least.” 

With a last good chuckle and shake of his head, Bull shooed at him. “Well, go on, then, before he sees us together and skins me, too. Good luck.” 

“Thanks,” said Varric, starting down the trail leading to the beach. He needed all the luck he could get. 

Tristan stood ankle-deep in the water, arms crossed, looking out at the ocean. The rain didn’t seem to bother him. It never had. 

Though Varric made no effort to hide his footsteps in the rocks—one had to get up awful early in the morning to sneak up on a Trevelyan— Tristan made no indication of noticing him until he made it to about three yards behind him and, without turning his head, Tristan said, “If you’re who I think you are, you’d better start running now.”

Varric cleared his throat. “Hey, Stormy,” he said, cautiously, then ducked to avoid the rock hurled at his head. “I know, I know!” He held up his hands. “I’m sorry, but if you’ll just—“

“A month?” Tristan seethed, hurling another rock—this one was smaller, and glanced off Varric’s shoulder. “You— _a month?_ And _not?_ A _WORD?”_

“Alright, that’s not fair. I left a note—waitwaitARGH!” 

Varric fell ass-first into the water, right as a wave smashed into the shore, leaving him sputtering as he scrambled to his feet. “Okay, _that_ was—“

“I am so— _angry_ with you!” Tristan yelled. “How could you do something like that? Run off in the _middle of the night_ to _MAKER knows where,_ and all I get is a note saying ‘don’t worry, back soon’.” 

“Alright, my voice doesn’t sound like that—“

_“Don’t worry?”_ Tristan shoved his chest again. _“BACK SOON?_ You were gone a _month!_ You could’ve been kidnapped for all I fucking knew!” 

“Stormy—“

_“DO NOT—“_

“Tristan. Please. If you’ll just listen to me.”

The fog in the air gave the illusion that the water was steaming off of Tristan’s skin. Or maybe that wasn’t an illusion. He crossed his arms, raised his eyebrows. “I would _love_ to,” he said, and could have cut diamonds with it. 

“First of all,” said Varric, still holding up his hands in case of further attacks. “I want to say I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left like that, it was stupid and I didn’t think about the consequences—“

“No _shit.”_

“I just—I woke up, and I saw you, and I had to go.” 

Hurt flashed across Tristan’s face. “You had to _go?”_

“No, no, no,” Varric rushed, _shit, this wasn’t going how it was supposed to go at all_. “That’s not what I meant. I meant—I saw you, and—“ He couldn’t quite hold in his smile. “You were drooling on my arm.”

_“I was not—“_

“And I remember thinking, if this was anyone else, it would be gross, but because it was you, it made me lay there and smile like the biggest idiot anyone’s ever seen.”

“Well, you’ve got one part right, at least.” 

“And it made me start to think about all the other things about you that make me want to smile like that. Like reading in the bathtub, and cheating at cards ,and going up to the roost to feed the ravens, and that thing your cheek does when you want to laugh but you’re in public, and the way you hold a pen, and that thing you do with your tongue—“

_“Varric,”_ Tristan cut in, though his ears were starting to go pink. “Stop—rambling. Where have you _been?”_

Varric reached into his oilskin satchel and pulled out a large, slightly ruined, but beautifully yellow rose, and put it in Tristan’s hand. At first, it looked like Tristan was going to slap him, but then recognition dawned in him. 

“Wait, is this—“ He looked up. “This is from my family’s garden. How… how did you—“

“I rode off in the middle of the night, and didn’t stop riding until I was at Ostwick. I’m sorry it took so long, I went as fast as I could. I just—I had to go.”

“Why on earth did you have to go to _Ostwick?”_

“To get this.” With one hand, out of his pocket, Varric took an old, ornate silver ring, and took Tristan’s hand with the other, which had started to shake. 

“That…” Tristan shook, too. “That was my father’s. His—“

“Wedding ring, I know,” said Varric. “Teddy gave it to me. For you.” 

“Varric—“ 

“Will you?” 

By the time he got the words out, Tristan had already shoved the ring onto his finger, grabbed Varric’s soaked face with both hands, and kissed him. 

“Yes,” he said, breathless, and tried to kiss him again, only their grins both got in the way and they laughed. 

Maybe, Varric thought, the Storm Coast wasn’t such a bad place, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that's a wrap! thank you all for everything—even if you don't comment/kudos (which you should! just sayin'), just the fact that people read this thing i spent Literally Eight Months Of My Life writing means so much to my nerdy ass. i hope you got half as much enjoyment out of reading it as i did writing it. xo


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